The Last Gift
by kirsant
Summary: Draco finds Hermione, obliviated, riding a train. What happened to her, and why has the muggle world become such a dark place? Post-Hogwarts, Dramione.
1. A Chance Encounter

**A fair warning: mature and, sometimes, violent themes inside.**

 **If you would be so kind to leave a review or two (or more!), you'll make my day. CC welcome.**

 **Harry Potter, its characters and story belong to JKR.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

The last train of the day rumbled through the station, raindrops steadily pattering against its frame. A dreary drizzle had dominated the evening, slowly and methodically eroding any good spirits that Hermione had woken up with in the morning. She detested this weather; neither heavy rain nor sun, just a wet dull blanket that muffled sounds and made her untamable hair all the more frizzy.

Hermione leaned her forehead against the window, breathed out, fogging the glass, and traced her fingers along the cool plane. Outside, the world was a kaleidoscope of gray, black and, sometimes, a blurry neon halo from the sign of a shop or bar that was still open. People - the few that were still out in this dismal weather - were just eerie shadows with no substance and no meaning. She would glimpse their outlines, and they would disappear into the mist and the rain. She wondered who they were, and what reasons caused them to brave the bleakness of the outdoors. She wondered what their stories were, what they were thinking about, or if they saw her, a vague and lonely shape in a train's window, and whether the same thoughts plagued them.

Hermione sighed. Her mind wandered these past days, taking her down trails of meandering thoughts. On good days, she ended up with visions of strange and wonderful places: glimpses of a majestic castle and people flying ( _flying!)_ on brooms, of smiling and laughing faces that seemed so familiar (though they were not), of library stacks filled with the most wondrous books... Despite the disturbing absurdity of these images, they never failed to make Hermione smile; and smiles were a rare commodity these days.

The train jolted and slowed to a stop. There weren't many passengers at this hour; in fact, she was sharing the car with only several other people. Two of them - an elderly couple burdened with shopping bags - stood up to leave. That left her and only one other: a young man with pale blond hair, dressed in a finely pressed suit underneath some sort of cloak and a pair of polished dress shoes. He looked distinctly out of place in this dilapidated train car scoured with graffiti and litter. Hermione had noticed him glancing at her periodically throughout the journey. At first, she thought he was just checking her out, which (much to her chagrin) was unusual enough to raise her suspicions. However, his gaze was more than just an idle appraisal; there was a certain arrogance in it, a kind of egocentric superiority that made her bristle with indignity. An unmistakable smugness crossed his features when she caught him staring at her once again, causing her to scowl in disgust and turn back to the window.

From that moment on, she refused to acknowledge him, and chained her gaze to the foggy glass, pondering the uncertainty that her life had become.

The trouble with that was she didn't have much to process. Her life - or what she remembered of it - began three months ago at a Moscow airport. She'd woken up in a daze in one of the terminal buildings, confused, disoriented, with a pounding headache. All she had was a purse, which contained a boarding ticket for a plane headed to Heathrow, a passport, some aspirin, and a wad of cash; rubles mixed in with pounds and euros. That particular mess had irked her to no end; why couldn't the cash have been separate and organized? It was improper.

The aspirin had alleviated her headache somewhat, and then the boarding process for her plane had begun.

Later, she would analyze her behavior, finding it remarkably odd. Without a single question as to her situation, she boarded the plane, handing her ticket to the smiling attendant at the gate, sat in her seat and proceeded to mindlessly stare out the window until the plane was halfway to London.

Then she realized she couldn't even recall her own name.

The months that followed were filled with nightmarish bureaucratic efforts of tracing her identity. Despite the availability of a name ( _Hermione Smith,_ her passport stated) they were, as of yet, unsuccessful. In the meantime, she had found a job with a meagre paycheck, and a small flat to spend the nights at. It was empty - just the bare essentials, just like her life. She didn't bother purchasing anything of value; she hoped - prayed - that there wouldn't be a reason to. That she would wake up one glorious morning, with her memory intact, surrounded by missed friends and loved ones.

Currently, her morning routine began with quarreling neighbors, whose arguments were more than easy to hear through the flimsy walls.

An unintelligible garble from the train's intercom brought her back to the present. Her stop was approaching, and the rain outside seemed to be intensifying as great bouts of thunder heralded an approaching deluge. An unwelcome development. Her flat was several blocks from the station; her umbrella left at home, forgotten in the morning. She sighed. Maybe she could wait out the storm at the station?

But she didn't have to worry about the weather for long. Mirroring her actions, the blond had risen from his seat, and, with a self-satisfied smirk aimed at specifically at her (she was sure of that), sauntered over to the exit.

A shiver of apprehension crawled down her spine.

The bloke looked too posh to be truly dangerous, but one could never be sure these days. There had been a drastic spike in crime over the past several years. Murders, rapes and burglaries became a common topic on the weekly news. Sometimes, whole families would disappear without a trace; sometimes, their mangled remains would turn up several weeks later.

A lone woman this late at night was an easy target.

The doors opened, and she hurried through them, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder. The blond had followed her. It was doubtful he lived here; his clothes screamed of wealth, and this neighborhood housed the working class and families down on their luck. She lengthened her steps, dipping one hand into her purse, grasping a can of pepper spray.

"Granger!" The man's voice carried over the hammering rain, echoing in the grungy corridor.

 _Granger._ She stumbled to a stop. That word, no, it was a name… it sounded so familiar, but before she could reason out why, the blond had caught up to her, grabbed her by the shoulder, and faced her with angry scowl.

"Granger," he growled again. "Don't even want to acknowledge me? Am I that beneath you now, or do you simply not care? Or did you actually believe that I wouldn't recognize you on the train? You've changed your hair a bit, sure, but I'd have to be daft to not realize who you are. And, and - what? You think I won't tell Potter I saw you? You know how much fucking trouble they've put everyone through, looking for you? Raiding parties of aurors have been hauling everyone in, interrogating, and I had to sit for 5 hours under veritaserum with two wankers asking about all my private shit. And hell, here you are, not a care in the fucking world, riding a goddamn muggle train."

She stared into his stormy eyes, soaking in the monologue. _Potter. Muggle. Aurors._ Those words were like ringing bells, whispering an obscure yet familiar harmony in the recesses of her mind. She knew those words; she shouldn't, no dictionary or thesaurus carried them, but she did! And this man, this impeccably dressed, angry git of a man knew her! Never had she been more confident in anything else. For obviously, he must, for his speech to make any sense whatsoever. The alternative was that they were both crazy, and, after briefly indulging in the fear that she was descending into mutual insanity with a complete stranger, she discarded the idea.

"Granger!" The man was shaking her shoulder. She stared back at him, hope blooming in her chest. _He said someone was looking for her. Someone cared._ The confirmation of her deepest desires was so overwhelming, that for several moments she couldn't even breathe. Something trickled down her cheek. Maybe it was just spray from the rain.

"Are you deaf? Why are you crying? Have you finally succumbed to muggle disease?"

Her world had been shaken to its very core, and the man hadn't even paused in his tirade. Then, in a very condescending gesture, he snapped his fingers several times in front of her nose.

That did the trick.

"You slimy, sleazy, filthy ferret," she exclaimed, pushing him back. "Get your grubby paws out of my face!" She honestly had no idea where the ferret reference had come from, but it felt right. Also, it shut him up. That felt good. "You do not," she continued, "wave your fists and yell at me!"

Among the many things she didn't know (or couldn't remember) was why she felt such a profound antagonism towards this young man. Then again, he had publicly accosted her, so was she really to blame? Even the fact that he might hold the keys to her memories couldn't prevent an emotional outlash.

"And I'm not," she added, quickly but conspicuously wiping the moisture from her face, "crying. I'm just assaulted by the sights of you. It's honestly painful."

Unconsciously, she raised a hand to rub the spot on her arm, where the hideous scar lay, covered by the sleeves of her cashmere sweater. It was fall now, but even in the summer, she had taken to wearing long sleeve shirts and blouses. No matter how hard she tried to hide it however, the scar was ever-present in her mind, and no amount of layers could conceal the disfigurement she bore. _Mudblood,_ it said, literally written in skin. Another mystery of her past, one that caused her to shudder from a foul clenching feeling in the bottom of her gut every time she looked upon it. Sometimes, a fire burned over the inscription, and she would cry out, suffering from the ghost of a tragedy she couldn't even remember. Now, she traced her fingers in a soothing circle over that spot, and noticed how the man's eyes widened for a fraction of a second and a guilty look flickered over his features.

Suddenly, all her anger vanished, replaced by a kind of weary exhaustion. The roller coaster of emotions had been ridden; adrenaline so present a moment before now dissipated into nothing.

"Look, Granger," he said gruffly, "I don't know why you're hiding out here, but your disappearance sparked a lot of unrest. You could have at least told Potter and Weas-"

"Wait," she said, interrupting him, "I'm… can we not talk here? My flat's a few minutes away. Do you have an umbrella?"

His response was to stare at her, perplexed.

"Yes," he finally responded and removed a fold up umbrella from the insides of his cloak. "Shall we then?"

A rumble of thunder echoed his words.


	2. Under Thundering Skies

Draco could not have imagined a more surreal end to his day. At his side, stepping carefully to avoid the numerous puddles that pooled in the cracked concrete, was the missing Hermione Granger. Her gaze was fixed to the ground, brows furrowed as if she were silently contemplating a particularly troublesome complication. She nibbled her lip as she walked; a picture of a girl with a problem.

The rain around them was deafening, and she leaned in close to partake in the protection his umbrella offered. He had to carry one; it's not like he could cast a water repelling charm, not without his wand anyway. That was his life now: no wand and having to share transportation with dirty muggles. Still beat a permanent residence in Azkaban, though, a fact for which he was partly indebted to the woman walking next to him.

The object of his thoughts sneezed suddenly, shivered and rubbed her hands together. There was a nip of chill in the air, brought on by the rain, and Granger was dressed in just a simple sweater. Her peculiar request for an umbrella had shocked him for moment; he figured it must mean she didn't have her wand either. But where was it? There was a story there, and he'd prefer to hear it without her dying of a cold.

"Wait."

She stopped, turning towards him with a puzzled expression. She had crossed her arms, hugging them close to her own body; a futile effort of retaining warmth.

"Here." Shrugging off his cloak proved to be a little awkward, since he was still holding the umbrella.

"Put this on."

"I…" It seemed she was about to argue, and he wasn't going to permit that.

"Don't argue, Granger. You'll catch a cold. Put it on, I swear it's not cursed."

She startled a little when he called her by her name; more information for him to ponder. Then, after a momentary hesitation, she extended her arm, accepting his offer.

"Thank you." She quickly draped the cloak over her shoulders, huddling into its warm depths.

It was too large for her, and it covered her like wet feathers frame a miserable sparrow. He took a moment to really inspect her. She didn't look well. Bags under her eyes, sallow skin, and a mop of windswept hair that could really use some pampering. Of course, it had seemed like she never really cared for her appearance, prioritizing academic achievements over what she saw as superficial attributes. But this was… unhealthy. Something was very, very wrong.

And just as he arrived at this conclusion, she smiled. It was small and brief, just barely lifting the corners of her lips, but it was there and it was directed at him. It changed her so much. It was like a distant light in a stormy sea promising warmth and a safe harbor. It was the first smile she had ever given him, and it was open and grateful and… pretty?

The boy in Hogwarts would have been appalled and disgusted, but the man that stood here today suddenly felt his chest fill with a previously unencountered warm feeling, and unwillingly met her smile with one of his own.

It was shocking how much his feelings vacillated this evening.

Seeing her on that train was initially a shock, and it had quickly turned to anger. Her disappearance had been a source of so many problems for him and what was left of his friends (as if they needed more). Many people still had debts to settle after the war, and they were quick to point fingers; the Ministry, emboldened with such public support, had begun conducting raids with a fervor, seizing assets, and placing additional restrictions on those who had been even slightly associated with the losing side of the war… And there she was, perched in her seat, staunchly ignoring him! HIs temper had flared, and he had followed her out, prepared to ridicule, threaten, and even shame her. But then she started to cry. The girl that had withstood torture on his home's floor and helped defeat Voldemort, was crying and rubbing the arm that undoubtedly retained his aunt's memorable "gift". His anger instantly vanished, swept away in a tide of guilt and regret.

"Come." She tugged at his elbow. "We're close, it's just up that way," she said, pointing ahead to where a block of flats sprawled next to some gray warehouses. A single tree, its leaves touched by the invariable desolation and decay of autumn, stood nearby like a lonely sentinel guarding some long-forgotten post.

Her building was just like the others; they were copies, built for expediency, not comfort. A woman of indeterminate age leaned on the wall near the entrance, smoking a cigarette. She gave them a piercing look as they approached, then chuckled.

"How much she chargin', honey? I'll show you a better time, if you want."

Her voice was throaty and a little hoarse. Some men may have found it appealing; Draco felt an urge to vomit. Lack of subtlety aside, to be propositioned by a muggle prostitute, could he fall any lower?

"I'll pass."

Unfazed, the woman just shrugged and went back to contemplating the world through a haze of smoke. She winked at Granger when they passed her by, and Draco noticed a rosy tinge appeared on his companion's cheeks, amusing him to no end. The girl had fought and triumphed over one of the most evil wizards of all time, yet was embarrassed by a sexual insinuation.

They trudged past the woman and took the stairs to the second floor.

"Here it is."

The keys didn't fit at first, and then it was a whole battle to turn them. Hermione, huffing a little from annoyance and embarrassment, finally came out victorious. Draco pretended to not notice.

He followed her into the flat, shutting the door behind him. Hermione's residence - calling it a home would be a blatant lie - was spartan. The walls were empty; not a single photo or picture could be seen. He spied a bookshelf filled with reading material and a small divan sporting linens and a pillow. Nothing else.

"Um.. tea?" Hermione's hesitant question distracted him from his observations. He noticed she was rubbing her arm again.

"Sure," he answered.

The kitchen was tiny, just a small table that held a cheap vase with a few wilted flowers. A single chair - the plastic kind you see outside cafes - accompanied the depressing arrangement. He processed these things, adding them to the paucity of information he had collected over the course of the evening. No, that wasn't true. He had gained a lot of information, just none of it made sense. All these details about her were like little pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, but with no direction on how to stick them together.

Well, he had escorted her home; hopefully, she would provide him with some answers. She owed him at least that much, because not reporting her location to the authorities instantly had been a mistake. A big one, possibly.

"Alright then Granger, why don't you start?"


	3. Fears

She turned to meet his gaze, startled at how loud someone else's voice seemed in this small space. She didn't answer him right away and bit her lip again, suddenly filled with a fear that she had been wrong. What if he didn't hold any clues about her past; what if she had just let a complete stranger into her flat? She needed to be careful, find out what he knew without revealing too much about herself at first. She'd formulated a plan and a list of questions during their hike that would hopefully clear the situation somewhat and determine whether or not this gentleman could be trusted. Ironic, she thought, considering she'd already invited him in.

The kettle was slowly warming, a welcome change from the frigid outdoors, and she mentioned for him to take a seat before realizing that there was (of course) only one for the two of them. Noticing her faux pas, the man quipped: "Unless you'd like to share, I think I'll stand."

"Right," she responded with a blush, and then, with a deep breath, jumped in feet first.

"You mentioned my disappearance caused problems?"

The man looked at her like she was crazy. Maybe she was.

"Do you really need to ask," he scoffed finally. "One of Potter's best friends, the smart third of the Golden Trio goes missing, and you think there'd be no consequences? You know, I'm putting myself in danger just talking to you without reporting your location."

"And I'm grateful, really," she interceded, quickly trying to adjust to the cornucopia of information he delivered with just a single sentence. It didn't help that her emotions would suddenly surge in response to some words. Like "Potter". She felt an almost familial affection towards that name; a warmth and loyalty that she couldn't explain. It was as if a mental barrier had been erected in her mind, preventing her from understanding why this name meant so much, but not blocking the emotional bond she must have formed. An avenue to be explored.

"Can you just first tell me how he is?"

"Who, Potter?" A scowl crossed the blond's face after her quick nod. "As well as the Saviour can be. Everyone in the whole of wizarding Britain just begging to suck his… hmm, what I mean to say is he's been desperately looking for you. He came to my… are you ok?"

She quickly relaxed her fingers which had clenched the plastic tabletop with such force that it was bending. "I'm fine," she lied, trying to conceal the tremor in her voice. "Just a little cold still."

 _Had he said 'wizarding'?! Maybe she truly had gone insane or was this some novel slang? But why was her mind so inclined to believe him? Where did this confidence that he was sharing the truth with her come from? Another illogically emotional tether?_

"You were saying...," she prompted.

The blond had paused, looking at her with suspicion, but then acquiesced.

"Well, he was at my interrogation. Apologized even, said he was sure it wasn't me, and then sat through the whole damn thing. Sanctimonious git. They're grasping at straws, and using the search as an excuse to haul in all the 'undesirables'. Which is why I should be telling them about you right now, instead of having a conversation in this muggle shack."

"Muggle?" The question was out of her mouth before she even realized what a tell it was. Damn her curiosity, but she really hated listening to terminology - or any subject, for that matter - on which she didn't have an acute grasp of. So much for being sneaky.

"Mug… did you just ask me what a muggle is?"

"No," she faltered, failing to find a convincing lie. "I meant…"

Her floundering was interrupted by the kettle's whistle, and she quickly busied herself with pouring the tea, thankful for the timely diversion.

"Earl Gray fine?"

"Yes."

"Good. I really don't have anything else," she confessed, handing him a plate with a steaming cup. "Sugar's on the table."

The man nodded, gingerly set his drink down with a distinctive clink, and then looked at her with a purpose.

"Granger, what's my name?"

He knew. She hugged her own cup with her fingers, seeking all the warmth that there was. She didn't want to admit to her own amnesia. She was scared. She still didn't know if she could trust the man, and was emotionally confused about him. Moreso, holding on to her secret meant she was in charge of the conversation. She was in control, if only for a tiny portion of her existence. She didn't have her memories, she'd forgotten her own identity, but at least she could direct a series of questions and answers. Now, even that would be lost, leaving her exposed and defenseless at the mercy of a man's whim. Would he tell her the truth then? Or would be try to take advantage, feed her lies, or even just leave and never come back? Give her the promise of healing, only to mercilessly rip it away moments later?

"Why… would you ask me that?" Her attempt at a distraction was as cringeful as it was impotent.

The man started ticking off fingers as he listed the reasons.

"You haven't called be my name even once. Your behavior is strange, the question about muggles is absurd, and you've been fishing for information all evening. You might think your acting is clandestine, but - and believe me when I say this - it's nothing compared to the schemes we wove down in Slytherin. So, and I want an honest answer, Granger, because I've been very forthcoming with you; I'll repeat: what is my name?"

Another wave of fear threatened to drown her. A weakness in her knees caused her to practically collapse into the cheap chair. The uncertainty of her near future was irrationally powerful, and she already hated herself for such a display of fragility.

"It's ok, Granger."

He said it softly, almost kindly. She looked up, astonished, hoping. Maybe he would help her, after all? She sighed, closing her eyes, focusing on her breathing.

In, out.

In, out.

In… out.

She would be fine. She's strong, and she'll get through this. And he will help her.

Then, filled with this unexpected yet oh so welcome reassurance, she told him everything.


	4. Hermione Hates Broomsticks

He didn't interrupt, listening to the tale with unwavering focus. The tea remained on the table, untouched, and was still warm by the time she finished.

"So about 3 months? That's what you remember?" he asked after a contemplative silence.

"Yes," she confirmed. "The airport in Moscow, that's where it begins for me. Then I was in Heathrow, and I didn't even know who I was."

"And the muggle authorities…"

"...were useless. Complete pisspots. No one even took me seriously, no matter on how many doors I knocked. One even called me an attention-seeking… well, he said he'd have me put in jail if I continued purposefully wasting his time."

She swirled her tea with a spoon.

"Not a single doctor - back when I still had the money for consultations and exams, and I had to pay out-of-pocket for most because the NHS is a residence-based system, and my residency status was questionable at best - could find anything physically wrong with me. Several psychologists had the brilliant deduction," she added, rolling her eyes, "that the amnesia was a symptom of some recent trauma, but whatever money I had ran out before any therapy could take effect. And so I'm here," she concluded with a resentful sigh.

"So, please." She looked at him with wide, pleading, caramel-colored eyes. "Tell me. Where I'm from. Who I am; what I did; who's searching for me. Why do I always feel like an outsider, why do I not belong anywhere, and why do I feel that everything normal is not; why did this happen to me, why?! Why?! Help me, please!"

Her voice came out as half-formed sobs by the end, as she channeled months of loneliness and fear into a single plea.

"Please," she begged. "Please, just… I want to know. I _need_ to know… I…"

The man was her side suddenly, kneeling on the floor, his hand resting on her back.

"I'll tell you," he whispered in a rush. "Shhh, Granger, shhh. I can show you. You don't need to be afraid anymore. I'll take you. To your friends, to Potter, to Weasley. St. Mungo's. That's a hospital. I know you don't remember yet, but you will. It sounds like an obliviate charm; it should be reversible. You can have your life back."

He emphasized his words by rubbing soothing circles into her back, and she quieted, sniffling softly.

"I'm sorry," she croaked finally, embarrassed at her emotional outburst. She rubbed the tears from her eyes, turning away from him. "I must look awful," she said, suddenly acutely aware of his closeness.

"Nothing a good and proper bath won't fix." His hand was still on her back. "We can go tonight, if you want."

Tensing, she whirled to meet his eyes.

"Tonight? Right now?"

"Well, yeah. Why wait? We'll have to go to the Manor first, though, and from there I can owl Potter. He'll come running quick."

"Owl?" She stared at him incredulously, and he chuckled.

"Do I have a story to tell you, Granger. But we'll have to get going first. There's a house - I have an address - where I stash my broom."

"Broom?"

Her one word questions must make her sound like an idiot, but what else could she respond with. Owls and brooms, really. She suddenly remembered one her dreams, where she was escaping a fiery hell on a broomstick, dodging flaming gorgon heads between huge columns of rubbish. She'd woken up gasping, drenched in sweat, her heart beating erratically.

"I'll get us there. Don't worry about it."

Does saying 'don't worry about it' ever pacify anyone?

"First, you need to find us a… one of those cars that ferry people. I can't apparate us right now."

"You mean a cab?" It was difficult, but she managed to dam the deluge of questions that was about to drown him. _Owls? Broomsticks? Apparate? What's the Manor? Who's Potter, how do I know him, and why does he feel like a brother? Is…_

"GRANGER! Stay in the present. You'll remember everything soon enough, so explaining all of it to you now will just be a waste of time. Just… trust me, ok?"

Trust him. It was as easy as that, wasn't it? Decided to just accept whatever this night threw at her, Hermione grabbed a phone from her purse and made the call to a cab service.

Meanwhile, the man sniffed his tea and took a tentative sip, immediately scowling and dumping several teaspoons worth of sugar in. He swirled it aggressively into the tea, muttering something under his breath, and only stopped when he realized she was staring at him. He raised his eyebrows at her in a silent query, and she blushed.

"It's just… I never even asked your name."

His hand paused, the sugar only half-dissolved in the lukewarm tea. He met her eyes for a brief second, and then his gaze shifted beyond: it lingered on the cabinets and the checkered floor, it took in the rumbling refrigerator and the busted toaster, it froze on the smoke-stained walls. What was going through that blond head, she wondered, and then he spoke, his voice hesitant and distant.

"We've known each other for years, Granger. For most of that time, our relationship could be categorized as a stable mutual hatred. I know I'm to blame for most it, and despite all of that, you… you don't remember it now, but you did something that I never would have expected, and it left me in your debt. And now, talking with you almost amicably, you asking my name… it's so strange; like a new beginning, fresh with the morning dew."

"Well then," she answered, sticking her hand out with a smile, "let's make it a good one. I'm Hermione."

She felt his fingers twine around hers; his palm cool. His expression was almost vulnerable.

"Draco. Draco Malfoy."

"Well, it's very nice to meet you, Draco Malfoy."

They held each other's hands, lost in the moment, until her phone rang, notifying the cabby's arrival.

They were almost out of the door when she remembered she'd once again forgotten her umbrella. She asked him for a second, explaining what she wanted to grab, but he stopped her.

"You don't need it. Listen." He put up a finger to his lips, mentioning for her to be quiet.

She really didn't hear anything and then realized what that meant.

"The rain," she whispered. "It stopped."

And so it had.

The cab ride didn't take long; at this hour, traffic was nonexistent. Draco paid the driver, and they found themselves standing beside a three story house with a pointed roof, its red-bricked facade lost behind twining vines. The clouds had dispersed, and the moon's silver light reflected off windows and puddles, bathing the street below in mystical shadows.

"This way." He mentioned for her to follow him onto a path that hugged the house, leading them to a courtyard with a small shed, concealed beneath the wide branches of an old oak. Their footsteps, softened by a carpet of freshly-fallen leaves, were slow and peaceful. Hermione breathed in deep the smells of moss, oak, and dirt; the grayness of the city was forgotten, a quickly fading memory receding under the sighing wind.

"This place is amazing," she whispered, as raising her voice any higher seemed blasphemous.

"One of our old properties," he replied just as quietly. "You should see inside. There's quite a library here - you would love it."

He fiddled with the lock a moment, and the doors of the shed sprung open without a single creak. Stepping inside, he reached for a long broom with a curved handle that was propped up against a wall.

"The V-1 series. Publicly, it hasn't been released yet." He sounded both smug and content at the same time, which did nothing to decrease her bewilderment. _He was serious about the broom; it wasn't some prank._ She gulped, nervous. _What had she gotten herself into?_

"Oh, don't look so anxious, Granger. It's perfectly safe."

That's exactly what people said about unsafe things, so she took a step back.

"How about you actually tell me why you're holding a broom and just what, exactly, are you planning with it?"

"Fly." He said it as the most nonchalant thing in the world.

"Fly?!"

"Yeah, like in the sky. Like a bird."

"But, but… it doesn't have any wings!"

His laugh echoed along the cobblestone path, deep and unrestrained.

"This is-"

"Magic." His voice was soft, a natural fit into the serenity of this courtyard. "You'll be seeing a lot more very soon. Don't be afraid, because, as much as my adolescent self would hate to admit it, you're a part of it too."

She accepted his explanation as if it were the most usual thing in the world; it felt like a certain missing part of her had just clicked into place, completing her on some subconscious level.

He closed the shed, glanced around the courtyard and mounted his broom, mentioning for her to do the same. Despite copious amounts of apprehension, she obeyed, lifting her legs to position herself behind him, circling her arms around his waist.

This was crazy, the last rational part of her thought. Insane even. She should be locked inside an asylum for following this maniac, for surely, there was no way in hell this would ever-

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

Her shriek pierced the moonlit sky, and the git's chuckle was cut short when her arms squeezed the breath out of him.

"Let go," Malfoy choked out. "Merlin, Granger, you're suffocating me."

She paid him no heed, because _she_ _was flying on a broomstick!_ Everything he told her, all her conflicting emotions - they were real! Magic was real! This was her place in the world! This was where she belonged! This was…

He sped up, the few streetlights below turning into streaks of molten gold, and she screamed again.


	5. A Little Rest

"Never!" Smack!

"Ow, what the-" Smack! Smack!

"Thought that was funny, did you?"

Smack!

"No, I was just…"

"Was I that entertaining?!" Smack!

"No, you were hilarious! My ears-ow! CUT IT OUT!"

...For the first several minutes after they landed, Hermione, unused to such methods of travel, wobbled around like a drunk sailor fresh off the high seas. Malfoy, bearing witness to her graceless spins and twirls, lasted about five seconds before collapsing on the ground from laughter. Tears of unadulterated joy ran from his eyes, leaving him completely unprepared to fend off her inevitable onslaught. After all, someone had to pay for her moments of terror; and, oh look, how convenient: one unrepentant defenseless git within arm's reach. So she smacked him. And again. And again. And…

"Enough! Merlin, Granger, if this is how you show your gratitude-"

"Serves you right," she replied with some deep seated satisfaction and then gave a quick appraisal to her surroundings.

They had landed on a wide expanse of lawn, ringed with manicured bushes and shrubs. A winding gravel path led to a raised patio where a pair of high french doors stood, illuminated by a set of lanterns. The building itself - the part that she could see, at least - was exquisite, an architectural masterpiece. The Manor, he'd called it - and that was an appropriate name, for this was as much a house as a peregrine falcon is a chicken. Off to her left, there was what looked like an orchard, and smells of apple and cranberry floated over, carried by a light breeze.

Malfoy regained his footing, dusting off his ruffled clothes in the process. He glared at her, and she smiled back with a challenge.

"You're crazy sometimes, Granger, you know that? Always were."

"Less talking, Malfoy, more moving!" She was feeling nervous again, but was too tired for any critical introspection to understand why. Her muscles ached from the flight, adrenaline waned. She was empty and spent. This had been the most emotionally taxing day in months, and the bill was coming due.

The doors opened as they approached, and she found herself in a dimly lit foyer. The corners of the room were lost in shadows, but she could discern several portraits on the walls that all depicted snoozing men or women. A rather curious decorating decision, she thought. A grand staircase with gilded banisters led to the second floor.

Malfoy propped his broom against a wall, and turned to his guest.

"I'll contact Potter right away, and he'll take you to St. Mungo's when he comes," he said. "In the meantime, you can use one of the guest rooms upstairs to freshen up, if you like. Or maybe you're hungry? I can get one of the elves to prepare something."

Elves. Of course, there were elves. And who knew what else he had stashed away here. Magic lamps? A dragon? Santa Claus?

"No, I'll just take a room, if you don't mind."

"Of course. Linny!" He clapped his hands once.

Linny? Her confusion were short-lived, however, as a squat little creature, its hair tied up in frilly pink bows, appeared right in front of her. Hermione jumped, startled, raising a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her host watching her with devious glee. No doubt, he'd done this on purpose, unabashedly using her as a source of perpetual amusement. Prat.

"Linny, escort Ms. Granger to one of the guest rooms. Once she's ready, show her to my study, we'll wait there."

"Of course, Master." The elf's voice was high, almost a squeak. "Linny is so pleased to see a guest, and, oh, such a pretty one too. It's been too long since Master-"

"Linny!" Malfoy interrupted. "Your duties, if you will."

"As you say, Master Draco. Right this way, miss, follow Linny. Linny is good elf, and so pleased to serve. Just call out 'Linny!', and I'll be right at your side. Yes, yes, I will."

The elf began to ascend the staircase, comically hopping from one step to the next on her stubby legs. Hermione wordlessly followed her, still a little shocked at the turn of events, but stopped midway.

"Draco," she called out, and he turned to her, surprise evident in the raised brows. "Thank you. For everything."

"It's nothing… Hermione," he replied after a momentary pause. "As I've said: I'm in your debt. This was an opportune way to balance things out, that's all." Obviously considering the conversation at an end, he nodded to her once and then disappeared down a dark hallway.

She frowned, unsatisfied with his abrupt explanation. His actions over the course of the evening spoke to more than just a debt being repaid: he had been both comforting and supportive without any apparent reason to. He was a decent person at heart, and there was no reason to conceal this fact. Men can be so silly sometimes, she mused.

"Miss? Come." The elf tugged on her elbow, beckoning for her to follow.

After reaching the top of the staircase, Hermione found herself traversing a shadowed corridor with rooms on either side. Unable to stem her curiosity, she peeked into several along the way, noting that they all shared a rather peculiar similarity. Regardless of their nature, each room was only partly-furnished, as gaping holes replaced various pieces of furniture. One bedroom, for example, held no bed or vanity, which led her to wonder whether a bedroom without a bed could be considered a bedroom any longer. A cozy sitting room nearby boasted two bookless bookshelves and a wine cabinet without a trace of liquor.

Confused, she turned to Linny and asked her the reason behind such inconsistent furnishing.

"Bad, bad men!" the elf cried out with a fervor. "Greedy men, they come and steal and plunder. Linny tells them 'no'! You mustn't! But do they listen to a house-elf? No! Bad Linny!"

The elf suddenly bashed her head against a wall.

"Bad Linny! Bad Linny!" To Hermione's growing horror, Linny began to accompany each phrase with the dull thud of her forehead smashing the wall.

"No! Stop! Please!" Hermione rushed over to the masochistic little creature, and held her down, preventing any additional damage.

"Sorry, miss. Linny so sorry," the elf sobbed. "I didn't mean for miss to see. Bad Linny!"

The elf made a motion to slap herself in the face, which Hermione quickly intercepted.

"It's alright, it's alright…" she attempted to comfort the elf with a soothing mumbling lull.

"You is good miss." Linny sniffed and looked at her with tear-streaked eyes. "You is with Master Draco now, yes?" she added hopefully.

"What?.." Flummoxed a bit at the sudden change in conversation, Hermione felt a sudden warmth in her cheeks.

"No, Linny, Draco is just helping me with a problem," she answered cautiously, afraid of setting the elf off on another self-mutilating frenzy. Her worries proved fruitless however, as Linny seemed appeased by the explanation.

"Yes, yes," she eagerly bobbed her head in agreement. "Master is very kind! But now, Linny must show you your room! Come, come!"

The elf hopped up, wiping her nose with a crinkled maroon handkerchief that magically (Hermione cringed at such a banal pun) appeared in her hand, and walked to a set of doors, opening them and inviting Hermione in.

"The Rose Suite, miss," she said with a bow. "Remember, call Linny if you needs anything!" The last words were almost lost in a small 'pop', as the elf whirled around and vanished into thin air.

Hermione, exasperated at the elf's behavior, which created more questions than answers, wandered into what looked like a boudoir. The bedroom lay ahead: an opulent yet comfortable arrangement with a four-poster bed, a fully stocked vanity, and a floor-to-ceiling mirror. From within its depths, her reflection gazed back at her despondently, her hair a labyrinthine mess of twists and tangles and blotchy circles around her eyes.

"I won't comment on the hair, but a little make-up could go a long way, dear. We look positively dreadful," her image huffed, hands on hips.

Hermione wasn't even surprised. A talking mirror was hardly shocking after all the night's events. It wasn't wrong either, but most mornings Hermione simply lacked the conviction to pretty herself. There had been no point.

"Why don't you go clean up a bit? There's a bath right over there. You know it would do us good."

Irritated that a magic mirror was giving her advice on personal hygiene, Hermione glared in response, but her reflection just grinned and stuck her tongue out.

Very mature.

Nevertheless, the idea of a long, hot shower was much too appealing to overcome.

The bathroom itself, tiled in beige and earthy brown, was a welcoming sight. A jade-and-silver bathrobe hung on one of several wall-mounted hooks, while a variety of lotions, salts, scrubs, and other beauty paraphernalia dotted the countertop next to the sink. Experimentally uncapping one bottle, Hermione was pleased with a marigold aroma. It would do nicely, she thought, stripping off her clothes and stepping into the shower, which had instantly turned to the perfect temperature.

A girl could live with this.

Rotating beneath the cascading waters, she shivered as tension seeped out of her shoulders. What a day…

Almost an hour later, she stepped out, refreshed, with a healthy, radiant glow. Tip-toeing across the tiles, she grabbed the bathrobe and cuddled into its soft folds, a content and open smile spreading across her face. Finally, for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, she felt like the world was turning right again, that she had a fighting chance. She really needed to find a way to properly thank Draco for all of this… Draco!

He was waiting for her all this time, she remembered sheepishly. He must think her so rude! She'd lost track of time in the shower, and now… what time was it? It had been almost midnight when they left her flat, and that was several hours ago!

And-oh! She didn't even have anything to wear! The idea of soiling her body with the day-old clothes was simply revolting. How could she have been so unprepared?!

Accompanied by clouds of steam, she wandered out and sat on the bed, overwhelmed by the unexpected problems.

It was a really nice bed, she noted instantly, and couldn't resist the impulse to raise her feet and stretch out. It was soft, so soft. It would be so easy to fall asleep in its silky embrace. She wouldn't, of course, because Draco was waiting for her. He really wasn't that bad anymore. The prejudiced boy from school had grown up, it seemed. She frowned, trying to hold onto that unbidden thought, but it flitted away, chased away by waves of crashing fatigue. It had really been a long day. She'd just lay her head down for a moment and rest her aching eyes. Just for a little bit, not long at all. In a minute, she would rise and go down and apologize to Draco for making him wait. Yes, in exactly one minute. Maybe two. Two wasn't so bad. Not bad at all…


	6. A Grim Old Place

Harry Potter exhaled deeply and massaged his temples, seeking some relief from yet another throbbing headache. They kept returning: grating, pulsating pains in the back of his head - the result of too much stress and too little sleep. Ron Weasley, looking just as worn out and crestfallen, sat beside him.

Before them, strewn out over the floor and the battered table of Grimmauld Place, were dozens of reports and summaries that all led to only one, single conclusion: Hermione Granger could not be found. Magical traces failed to yield her location, ministry inquiries came up as duds, and the unquantifiable rumors that spread like wildfire in both taverns and tabloids (' _I saw her in Hogsmeade, I swear, right by the Shrieking Shack' or 'Hermione Granger Spotted Riding Pregnant Unicorn Near Belfast', etc.)_ all led to dead ends. Their only clue so far was a single letter, addressed to them two months before she was officially declared missing. Harry had memorized it word for word and recalled it once again:

 _Dear Harry and Ron,_ it read,

 _I know I haven't seen much of you recently; it's my fault and I'm sorry. I've been working on a personal project, and it's occupied all of my time. It's also the reason behind my departure from the Ministry. I know you've all been worried about me, but I'm afraid this is too important. I believe I've discovered a certain relic of our war, one left forgotten in the aftermath of the victory. I'm not yet ready to disclose what information I have gathered, but if I'm correct in my suspicions, then our worlds - both muggle and magical - are in grave peril._

 _There is some research left to conduct, and it will take me abroad for several weeks. Expect my owl around midsummer, because if my fears ring true, then we must move quickly. I'll tell you everything when we see each other next._

 _Love,_

 _Hermione_

 _P.S. Give my best to everyone and tell Ginny that, no (!), I am not interested in another blind date. We all know how the last one went._

When the second week of July passed, with no owl and no news, Harry and Ron opened an official investigation at the Ministry. August first, a press conference was held, asking anyone with any information regarding her whereabouts to come forward. A reward had been issued.

Neither route delivered any tangible result.

In fact, the investigation produced more questions than answers. Details of the project she referred to in her letter were unobtainable, as access to her house had been rendered impossible by wards that were as paranoid as they were powerful. Hermione had always been a skillful witch, and she had outdone herself here: even the most experienced ward-breakers the Ministry had on staff capitulated before her protective enchantments.

Her travels couldn't be traced as well. No floo or portkey had been registered to her name; no travel agency had ferried her. A plea for assistance to the muggle government was made, as it was plausible that Hermione, as a muggle-born herself, could have left the country via non-magical means. Action on the request had been delayed for weeks, as the muggle government seemed perpetually embroiled in one crisis after another these days. Finally, Harry and Ron, exasperated by the holdup, took a personal day from their jobs at the Auror Department and visited Downing Street themselves, magically coercing the muggle authorities to prioritize their request. Illegal, yes, but when your best friend goes missing, you bend the rules.

Unfortunately, that didn't help either. No Hermione Granger could be tracked leaving Britain by boat, plane, rail, or any other way at all.

And so, Harry and Ron (sometimes, some of their friends too) spent the nights either following rapidly vanishing leads, or sitting on the shabby couches in what had once been the Order's headquarters during the war, desperately trying to find an acorn of truth in a field that was laden with lies, gossip and misinformation.

"We'll find her." Ron's voice broke the suffocating silence.

"When?" Harry glanced down at the stacks of parchments littering the floor. They were all useless.

"I dunno, mate, but we will. It's Hermione we're talking about here; whatever trouble she's in, you know she can find a solution."

"Yeah, it's just… it's the _unknowing_ that kills me. With Voldemort, at least, you knew where the evil came from. Now… she could be anywhere, she could be..." Harry trailed off, unwilling to articulate the fears that had begun to torment him when he closed his eyes at night. The nightmares, where Hermione's lifeless body, bruised and torn, stared at him accusingly.

" _Why didn't you save me, Harry?"_ her deathly-pale lips would whisper. " _If only you'd tried harder, you could have prevented this. You could have found me in time."_

"I know, Harry." Ron gave his friend a look that said he understood what was better left unsaid; he carried a very similar guilt.

Another heavy silence descended upon the inhabitants of The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. What could you do, when every avenue you turned onto proved to lead you nowhere? When every flame of hope in your soul was dimming, if not being extinguished altogether?

A sharp and persistent tapping suddenly tore through the old townhouse. Harry and Ron both jumped, wands at the ready.

"Over there." Harry mentioned towards one of the windows, where the sound was coming from. A shape, blurry from the dirt and grime covering the glass, could be seen fluttering outside.

 _Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap._

"An owl? It's 3 in the morning. Could there be some emergency?"

Sharing a confused look, both men hurried over to the window. Opening it revealed a regal-looking owl that glided into the room with an indignant _hoot_ and perched itself on a grimy armchair. A letter was tied to one of its legs.

"Well, that's definitely not a ministry owl," Ron assessed. "Look at that glossy coat. That's one well-bred beast."

Harry, more interested in what news had literally flown into his home, quickly trotted to the kitchen and returned with several treats and a bowl of water.

"Here you go." He kneeled by the animal, placing the food and water on the table. The owl glared at him, but then, deeming the offering worthy, hopped off the chair (leaving torn shreds where claws had been) and took several sips from the bowl. Harry cautiously untied the letter, noting that the handwriting on the front end seemed vaguely familiar.

With Ron peering over his shoulder, he opened it and quickly skimmed the contents.

By the end, his fingers were trembling.

 _Potter,_

 _Something you've been looking for is currently enjoying the Manor's famed hospitality. Do hurry and retrieve it._

 _Malfoy_

 _P.S. It seems to share a condition with one Gilderoy Lockhart, so you might want to bring a specialist._

"Harry," Ron croaked out in a hoarse whisper. "Harry, he means it's _her."_

Harry's eyes, wide from hope and disbelief, barely met Ron's before he disapparated with a resounding _crack._

Weasley's vanishing form was only a second behind.


	7. At Malfoy Manor: Part 1

"Harry! Harry, stop! HARRY!"

Ron gripped his best friend's shoulder, but Harry tugged forward. Ron, refusing to let go, pushed back, and they stumbled and fell into a pile of autumn leaves, sticky and wet from the recent rain.

"Wait, Harry," Ron gasped, brushing out several twigs from his hair in short, jerky movements. "You can't go in there."

The Malfoy Manor gates, forged in the 16'th century of wrought-iron, stood before them. A proud and thorny 'M' was woven into their center; an apt comparison to the generations of Malfoy that had resided within. The territory behind them was dark, illuminated only by the twisting light of a wicked moon, half-shrouded behind wisps of torn cloud. A structure, both gloomy and grand, loomed in the distance, only a few of its widows lit.

"Are you mad?" Harry snapped, whirling on his friend. "Hermione's in there! _In there!_ Do you even remember what her last visit was like?!"

"I know, mate, I know, and I want to get her just as much as you do, but - think about this for just a second!"

Ron was panting, trying to formulate thought into words as quick as possible.

"Think!" he said again in a hurried and hushed tone. "It's the middle of the night, and we get a letter from, of all people, _Malfoy?_ And its sole purpose is to have you rushing here, alone, to this place?! The place where Vol… Voldemort lived." He choked a little on the hated wizard's name but continued nonetheless.

"You don't know what's waiting for you there. It could very well be a trap, and news of Hermione is…

"...the perfect bait," Harry finished with a groan. "You're right. But - damn! What if it's really her? That was Malfoy's handwriting, I'm certain. You know him: he was a bully, a coward and a prat, but even at the very worst, he was never a killer."

"But he could have been threatened, or, I dunno, imperiused even. Or maybe he's behind the whole thing altogether! He wrote he found her, but what does that even mean? Like, he was walking in a park, and oh, look over there: it's the missing girl I used to bully in school. A bit convenient, isn't it?"

"He wrote she was obliviated…"

"...and maybe he was one who did it in the first place."

Although there were several holes in that logic, the overall point made sense: rushing in _was_ dangerous. Frustrated at the delay, Harry ran a hand through his tousled hair, which was in desperate need of a haircut. Again.

"Damn it!" He hissed through clenched teeth and punched the ground beside him. Months of worry and despair almost caused him to throw caution to the wind. He rose, glancing at Ron with gratitude, and extended a hand, offering a lift. Ron took it, and together they surveyed the gated area beyond.

Casting several spells aimed at unmasking concealed enemies revealed nothing. Only a lonely wind whistled through the trees' unburdened crowns.

"We still don't know what's inside," Ron said, peering into the darkness.

"Alright then." Harry thought out loud. "I'll send a patronus to the Ministry; Rawlings and Cray are on duty tonight. I'll tell them to alert the others, and come back us up as soon as they can. And in the meanwhile, we'll…"

Harry gestured towards the Manor.

Ron nodded. The prudent thing to do would be to wait for a full team and invade the premises in one fell swoop. But there was a chance that Malfoy spoke the truth, and Hermione really was stuck inside that horrid place. And that just wouldn't do. As long as the other aurors knew their location, their backs were reasonably covered.

"Ready, mate?" Harry summoned his patronus, and the stag, upon receiving its instructions, rapidly bounded away in a haze of milky-white light.

"Always."

Ron pushed the gates open.

 **. . . .  
**

Draco Malfoy was about to rush up the stairs and demand what was taking his unexpected guest so long when he felt the ground wards tingle, signaling Potter and Weasley's arrival. He had no doubt that one would with come with the other; after all, disregarding a few spats, they'd been joined at the hip for years.

He left his study and walked towards the front hall, waiting for the two numbnuts to make the trek up to the house. They had to, for very few people could apparate directly onto Malfoy land itself; in fact, only Draco and Narcissa, as family, currently held that privilege. Such a precaution was necessary, unfortunately, because being a Malfoy these days was risky business. Too much resentment and animosity from those wronged by the Dark Lord and his minions meant that he always had to keep his eyes open. _Constant Vigilance,_ he thought with dry humor.

At least he felt secure within this domain. A thousand years it had belonged to his family. The blood and bones of his ancestors nourished the ground beneath, and generations of spell work made the estate impenetrable to enemy intrusion.

Of course, you can't spend your life hiding behind walls, no matter how appealing that option may seem sometimes.

He swung the door open before they even had a chance to knock, and was instantly greeted by a pair of raised wands.

"My, my, my," Malfoy murmured, "aren't we excited to see me?"

"Shove it, Malfoy. Where is she?" A scowl cut across Ron's freckled features.

"I see even notoriety couldn't teach you any manners, Weasley," Malfoy sneered in response, irked by such disrespect. This was _his_ home, he was doing _them_ a favor, and they respond by waving wands in his face? Outrageous! "Then, of course," he continued, "given your ill breeding-"

"Breeding that taught me right from wrong, you fucking ferret-"

"Alright!" Harry broke up the brewing dispute and cautiously advanced inside. His wand was out, and he carefully analyzed his surroundings.

"You can put your wands down," Malfoy stated, deducing the reason behind their hesitant yet hostile approach. "There's no one here but me… and her."

It wasn't even that difficult to figure out. No doubt, the paucity of gray matter within their thick skulls had come to the unfortunate conclusion that he had concocted some elaborate scheme to lure them into danger. Idiots. He didn't have the standing with any party to pull something like that off. Pureblood supremacists hated him for the Malfoys' last-minute betrayal, while the majority of the other witches and wizards loathed him for just about everything else.

Then again, these two were Gryffindors. He should have anticipated they'd barge in with wands held high, brains lagging in the distance.

"Well, we can't exactly take your word for it," Harry replied. His eyes scanned the corners of the hall, looking for any signs of danger.

"This is ridiculous," Malfoy snarled, but the two aurors cast a number of spells to ensure their safety anyway. "Are you satisfied now?"

After confirming that they were, indeed, the only ones present, Harry and Ron relaxed slightly and sheathed their wands.

"Don't get all giddy, Malfoy, this just proves that maybe you're not a total lying sack of sh-"

"Ron!" Harry placed a hand on his partner's shoulder, silencing him, and then quickly addressed the blond wizard before the latter had a chance to respond.

"Ok, Malfoy, we're sorry about that, but you have to understand we were a tad skeptical. Still are, actually. So is… is Hermione actually here? Is she fine?" Harry's voice wavered ever so very slightly by the end of his sentence. Draco didn't catch it, but Ron did, and he shot a supportive glance towards his friend.

Draco was distracted by looks his one-time enemies were giving him. Both aurors suddenly had such yearning in their eyes that the slytherin almost, _almost_ gave in to his prattish nature, and told them that, no, it was a giant joke, and she was probably lying dead in some forgotten ditch, and that they could sod off and go screw their respective mo- hmm, Potter's was dead, he might take it the wrong way, and such behavior was too reminiscent of his school days, anyway.

So instead, he just grunted, "She's upstairs freshening up. Been taking her pretty time too."

The effect those words had on Harry and Ron was immeasurable. It was like the weight of the world had been lifted off their shoulders, and their faces lit up with relief and joy similar to that the kind convicted men feel upon receiving a sudden stay of their execution.

Harry sagged against one of the marble columns that lined the entryway. He took off his glasses and rubbed them with the bottom of his untucked shirt, trying to hide the tremor seizing his hands. Ron looked up to the vaulted ceiling, blinking rapidly, and then quickly raised a hand to his eyes, wiping away several beads of moisture.

"She's back," he breathed out. "She's really back…"

Malfoy, observing their reactions, suddenly felt a painful longing fill his chest. Granger had friends - real friends that had looked for her relentlessly, and, if they had to, would walk into hell itself to save her. All he had was his mother, and she wasn't even fit to take care of herself these days. He turned away, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. There was a real connection between those three: Potter, Weasley and Granger. What would it feel like to be a part of that? To know that someone had your back unconditionally, and would do anything for you? Would he ever find someone he could trust so blindly and love so fiercely?

A momentary silence filled the hall, as the three men - once bitter rivals - were each lost in their own emotional landscape.

"Take us to her," Harry finally requested after somewhat awkwardly clearing his throat. "And, um, how did you find her? Is she alright? Has she been hurt in any way? Where was she?"

The Boy-Who-Lived couldn't stop the questions rolling off his tongue. Months of hollow worry and ineffectual guesswork came bubbling up in an eager demand to find out everything he could _now._ Malfoy didn't smirk or sneer in response; faced by the unforgiving scarcity of his own companionships, he just answered in a low, flat tone.

"She's alright. Obliviated, but it seemed fairly weak. I think she would have broke through it on her own, eventually. Emotionally, she's worse off. Tired, too. I lent her one of the guest rooms to rest up a bit. Was about to fetch her, when you two showed up."

"Wait." Ron suddenly broke in. "You didn't… she didn't see the room, did she? The one where…"

There really was no point in continuing that sentence. They all knew what room the redhead was referring too. The one where Hermione's blood had been spilled; where a mad witch had tortured her for information, carving evil into her arm.

"Merlin, Weasley. Fuck you. You think I would take her there? I'm not some-" Malfoy wanted to say he's wasn't a monster, but his voice tapered off, because he really wasn't sure. Would a monster even know it's a monster?

"Anyways," he went on after a heavy pause, "I'll have my house-elf show you the way. You'll want to apparate her to St. Mungo's to remove the charm. Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out."

He was about to summon Linny when he felt a familiar tingling in his extremities. He froze, clenching his hands into fists, and a look of barely restrained fury flashed over his face.

"Potter," he spit out in cold, clipped tones. "Would you care to explain why a team of aurors is approaching my home?"


	8. At Malfoy Manor: Part 2

Eyes narrowed, Draco glared at the two people he had invited into his home. It was true, he decided then: good deeds really don't go unpunished. He had helped Granger, taken her in, and told her two dumbass friends about it. In return, they sic the ministry on him. A wave of disgust rolled through his body, and he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to smash something. Anything. Preferably Potter or Weasley's jaw, but they had wands. He didn't.

"Look, Malfoy…" Harry began in almost consoling tone, but the slytherin was too angry to listen.

"Fuck you, Potter! I could have left her; I should have left her! Where she was - you'd have been lucky to ever find her! You know she looked like shit? That's right. Your precious girl had bags under her eyes the size of bowling balls. And I help her, I fucking _console_ her _,_ bring her to my house, tell you about her… and this is how you pay me back?" he yelled, stabbing a finger towards the doors. "By setting your hounds on me?!"

"Oh, get over yourself ferret, you do one decent thing in your miserable life-"

"Ron, don't escalate!"

"That's right, hold a schoolyard grudge, you filthy-"

"-and we don't know if he's even innocent, because-"

" _RON!"_

"-peasant! Why don't you go scrounge up some knuts for your family!"

"-maybe he's the guilty one here, and now he's just trying to cover his tracks!"

"Wow," Draco growled, voice laced with sarcasm. "You must really be the brains of the auror department, Weasley. So, according to you, I kidnap the witch and then-what? I decide to incriminate myself by handing her back over to you?"

"Well, we'll just find out, won't we?"

"You're a fucking joke of an auror, you know that? Hanging on by your boyfriend's coattails-"

"ENOUGH!" Harry bellowed.

Ron was red in the face; Draco - as pale as snow under a full moon. He was panting and kept balling his hands into fists, knuckles crackling. He had been stupid, so stupid, to think that they wouldn't hold the past over him. It would always be there: in the sneers and glares, the curses that trailed when he walked by, the open hostility, the naked contempt. It would forever follow him like some dark passenger, making others suspect even his most benign intentions. He hated everything at this moment: these two, for not giving him even the tiniest benefit of the doubt; his parents, for following a deranged maniac; himself, for listening to them. He hated Voldemort as well... for just existing, for such a twisted and vile evil should never even be brought into this world, and he hated the world itself too, for being so unjust, and cruel, and callous. He would never get a break, would he?

"Hold it, Malfoy, this isn't what you think," Harry beseeched.

"Oh yeah? Well, what is it then? Because it sure as hell looks like half the auror department out there."

"We didn't know what was waiting for us here, it's the goddamn middle of the night-"

"Oh, well pardon me for thinking you'd want a prompt summons for this. Maybe I should have waited a month or two-"

"-and it was just protocal. Look, I know you don't like the Ministry, but-"

"The ministry?" Draco sneered, his voice laden with scorn. "Why would I ever not like it? Because they've taken my wand? Gifted me with a whole series of humiliating hoops that I have to jump through every day? Because they confiscated half the Manor, claiming 'dark artifacts'?"

"There _were_ dark artifacts here…"

"THEY TOOK THE SILVERWARE, POTTER! The fucking silverware! Ewers and vases from the early Ming Dynasty! They emptied the wine cellar! Tell me, how much dark magic is in a 50-year-old bottle of scotch?"

Harry reddened; he hadn't heard anything about this.

"If that's true, then it's an egregious misuse of authority..."

"Ha! 'Egregious misuse of authority'." Draco's laugh, dry and humorless, echoed through the vast hall. "Thievery is what it was, plain and simple. And those… people out there perpetrated it. Yeah, your colleagues and partners are no better than the average crook."

Harry and Ron glanced at each other. They'd caught some whispers on the job about misappropriations and confiscated property disappearing from hold-up… but nothing on this level. What Malfoy was alleging reeked of corruption.

"Ok, Malfoy, let's just focus on this for now. You're in the middle, like it or not. So the easiest way for you is to go down, and-" Harry quickly raised his hands, preempting Malfoy's objection. "-as a witness! As a witness, just give a statement, and we'll go from there. No one's looking to set you up!"

Draco snorted.

"That's bull. Did you even hear what Weasel was spouting next to you? And that's child's play compared to what the others will think."

"Ron was just… anxious. We - the two of us - are just very anxious to see Hermione. Right, Ron?"

Ron grunted something that might have been an affirmative.

"See? Nobody else will enter your home, I promise. You just give your statement-"

Harry broke off, seeing Draco vehemently shaking his head.

"Ok, how about I take your statement. You and me. Nobody else. I just want to know what happened to my friend."

There were pleading notes in Potter's voice, which cooled Malfoy's anger. He had loathed the all-lauded savior in school, but those feelings failed to carry over the war. Besides, Potter had nothing to do with his misfortunes. Those stemmed from his own past and the new ministry, where Potter was just a cog in a machine. A naive innocent, who believed in justice, and stood up for what was right. You'd think the war would have changed that, adding some cynicism, but no, he truly believed in the good guys, and the good guys had won. Hadn't they?

His request was reasonable, though, and Draco, still seething from anger but trying his best to conceal it, acquiesced.

"Very well. But I'm sure it can wait until after your reunion."

They perked up at that last phrase, looking like puppies with a new chew-toy.

"Yeah." Ron, being silent for most of the last exchange, had to clear his throat before speaking. "We'd uh… very much like that."

Draco was about to respond, when there was a pounding on the front doors.

"Draco Malfoy! Ex-Death-Eater, Ex-Dark-Wizard! In the name of the law, I order you to open these doors!"

The voice, magnified by _sonorus,_ sounded pompous and haughty. Harry winced at the sound.

"That's Rawlings," he murmured to Ron. "Take care of him?"

Ron nodded and, rolling his eyes at Malfoy's reminder that he would permit no one else inside his precious home, stalked to the doors. He identified himself and then walked out, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Meanwhile, Harry approached his school nemesis.

"Hermione?" he inquired.

Draco sighed and clasped his hands; Linny, ever-willing to serve, materialized at his feet.

"Take Mr. Potter and his friend, Mr. Weasel, to Ms. Granger," he commanded. "Where is she, anyway? I swear, it's been over an hour."

"Ah, yes, Master Draco, it has." Linny kept glancing between him and Harry while she spoke. "But she be very tired. Linny check on her, and miss is sleeping soundly. She even, if Linny may be so bold, snore a little!"

The elf giggled, seeing this as highly amusing.

"Hmm, I see. Well, Potter, should we wake her?"

Harry squeezed his eyes shut so hard that dark spots started swimming in front of him. Two conflicting impulses - to see Hermione immediately and to let her get a good night's rest - warred within him. He made his decision and exhaled slowly. He had waited five months; he could last a few more hours.

"No," he finally answered, shaking his head. "Let her sleep. If it's alright with you, we'll stay the night and see her in the morning."

Draco, unhappy but accepting, nodded his agreement.

"Right, then. In the meantime, tell me everything. Where, when, how. This… we'll get to the bottom of this."

Draco groaned. This night would never end.

"Oh, and, uh… Malfoy?"

"What?" the blond bit out.

"Err… how do you know what a bowling ball is?"

Muttering some choice profanities under his breath, Draco didn't even bother answering.

 **. . . .**

There was a little space in the between the rings of creamy curtains, and a playful ray of sunlight peeked through. Eager and bright, it made its way over the floor and the bed to rest on the cheek of a frizzy-haired girl, warming it until a slow and happy smile graced her features, and she stretched, reaching arms high above her head and curling her toes with delight.

There is a moment there - just before you open your eyes, and the world's expectations come thundering in - of pure, unconditional bliss. Dreams are still reality at this point, and whatever good things we wish for seem just around the corner. Hermione, sickened by months of loneliness, confusion, and worry, bathed in this feeling, nuzzling contently against the soft cotton pillows.

They were so much better than the ones at her flat. Those, she had bought on discount for just several quid; dusty and thin, they made worse headrests than some of her books. Oh - her books! She would need to grab them. There was a fascinating historical novel she'd picked up in a quirky little bookshop near Oxford, and she was only half-finished. Maybe she could even bring it here…

Here… Because she was in Draco's home!

Eyes flashing open, Hermione sprung up, flinging away the sheets she had nestled into sometime during her slumber. Last night's events rolled through her mind, and she cringed, realizing that all of her determination to stay awake had amounted to nothing.

Well, it was embarrassing, but not something she could change. Draco would understand, she thought with a shrug, and glanced around the room. Several rays of light - including the mischievous little fellow that had woken her - were bursting through gaps in the curtains, which she approached, marveling at the soft texture, before flinging the material to the side.

Gasping with delight, she soaked in the awe-inducing sight spread before her. Linny had called these rooms the Rose Suite, and now Hermione understood why. Roses of a dozen hues, ranging from milky white to a glistening onyx, grew in a beautifully chaotic arrangement right beneath her windows. Impulsively, she flung them open, and let her senses be submerged in a rich bouquet, tempered by a subtly-sweet fruity fragrance. A fresh breeze ruffled her hair, and she giggled, feeling as giddy as a child does on Christmas morning after running downstairs and seeing that the space under the tree's branches is filled with presents of all different shapes and sizes.

A keen anticipation filled her very being, for today was the official end to her nightmare. She would be whole again!

Turning back from the windows, she noticed someone had placed a pile of folded clothes and some toiletries on one of the armchairs near a walk-in closet. A closer inspection revealed they were hers, from her flat. Pushing away the mystery behind their appearance, and, instead, comforted by the fact that she had something to wear, Hermione grabbed her toothbrush and spent the next ten minutes in the en-suite making herself presentable. Then, she stripped off the bathrobe she had slept in (she needed one of those - so comfortable) and dressed herself in a pair of faded jeans and a burgundy sweater, before clapping her hands and calling out for Draco's elf.

She frowned for a moment at that characterization. _Draco's elf_ implied a degree of possessiveness that was positively medieval! After all, didn't elves deserve equal rights?

It's unknown where this train of thought might have led her, but, fortunately (or not), it was derailed by said elf's arrival.

Linny beamed at the pretty miss. Guests were such a rare occurrence at the Manor these days, and that meant there almost were no tasks to complete! No great feasts to cook, no piles of plates to scrub, and no messes to clean up. Parties of hundreds had once trooped through these great walls, serviced by whole host of house-elves. Now, it was just Linny and Gupfell, who tended the gardens. It got lonely.

"Miss look so wonderful this morning! Did she rest well?"

"Thank you, Linny, yes, I did. I was just hoping that you could take me down to Draco."

"Oh, but you has guests! Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasel are here waiting for you! They comes last night, and then yell, yell, yell! Master yell at guests, they yell back! But then it quiet down, and they ask for yous, yes, but miss was so very tired, so Linny says 'no! You must let miss rest!', and they sit and wait!"

"They're… here?" Her heart fluttered, and an odd tightness seized her chest.

"Yes, yes. Right outside."

Hermione looked towards where the elf was pointing with anticipation, eagerness, nervousness, fear; her chest felt crammed with feelings that yearned to break free and swamp her. Tentatively, on quivering legs, she approached the door that led to the boudoir, brushing her hand against the handle. It was just a door. One last barrier. Another bout of fears threatened to engulf her, but she swept them aside, and, with a gulp and a push, opened the door.

They were there. The bodies sprawled uncomfortably in plush baroque chairs with gilded armrests were… were _her boys._ One with midnight black hair, unruly and unkept, and eyes that (she knew!) would be as green as fresh spring grass; the other, sporting a fiery mane and a face kissed with freckles. It was so strange, so exhilarating, seeing them there, unable to recall their names, but so firm in the belief that this was her family. She had missed them so, _so_ much.

A gasp - the tiniest one - escaped her throat, but they heard, and blearily opened their eyes, winking away remnants of sleep, and then they were on their feet, yelling incoherently, and she was rushing to them, and they to her. They collided in the middle of the room, a bundle of joy and tears, limbs tangling in a choking, sobbing embrace. They held her tightly, whispering 'Hermione, Hermione', and their faces touched, trails of tears mixing together.

Let's leave them there, dear readers. Let's look away now, give them a little space, because some moments are too intimate to share. Softly, so as not to disturb, we'll close the door, and walk down the Manor's pristine halls, ignoring the oaths and curses from portraits of Draco's prejudiced ancestors. They were a product of their times, but those are in the past. We… we look towards the future.

* * *

A/N: This chapter, whether because of the emphasis on dialogue or the multitude of conflicting emotions, was the hardest to write (so far, eh-eh-eh). Share your thoughts!


	9. St Mungo's

It was noon by the time they made their way downstairs. The Manor was still; Ron and Harry, accustomed to the Burrow's never-ending hustle and bustle, found this disconcerting. It felt… empty, and, in the hushed silence, it was difficult to imagine that a terrible dark wizard quartered here once, and Death Eaters walked the same halls.

Navigating the labyrinthine corridors, they soon came to one of the Manor's small dining rooms, colored in shades of pearl and baby blue.

Linny had insisted that they eat before departing, and a dangerous glint entered her eyes when Harry, unwilling to abuse Malfoy's hospitality (if his begrudging permission to stay could be called that), began stammering excuses. Without missing a beat, the headstrong house-elf, like a mother scolding an impudent child, proceeded to shame the famed wizarding world's savior. The miss, she declared, required a proper meal, and how dare this scar-faced wizard deny her sustenance when the poor girl is obviously famished! Harry's positions, weakened by such an unexpected advance, were then completely overwhelmed when Hermione's stomach emitted an audible growl, and he was forced to capitulate, lifting a white flag, ceding both brunch and his dignity to a simple house-elf, as Ron would jokingly point out later.

A wide table was set with a variety of food buffet-style. Linny, her face split with an ear-to-ear grin, welcomed them, bowing deeply, before disappearing with a small 'pop'. Picking up plates, they piled on heaps of food, a bit stunned at the cornucopia laid before them. In a way, it was almost reminiscent of Hogwarts' feasts.

Hermione was on her way to the table to take a seat when she spied a platter full of peaches. They were perfect: golden globes of summer sweetness, ripe and tasty. One look at them caused a pool of acid to puddle under her tongue. She quickly looked away. She hated peaches.

"Look, 'Arry! Lobster! Blimey, lobster for brunch!" Ron sounded both envious and incredulous as he lifted up a rose claw and gave it a sniff. "How is it that we win a war, and Malfoy loses it, and he's still richer than the three of us combined?!"

Hermione, nibbling on a piece of buttered toast with jam to get rid of the acidic aftertaste, glanced up at the mention of Draco's name.

"Oh, where is he, by the way?" A rosy blush creeped over her cheeks as she realized the blonde had completely slipped her mind. While she was dining in his house, no less!

"He left early in the morning," Harry responded. "He has his, uh… mandated trips to muggle London."

"Yeah, part of his probation, isn't it?" Ron added. "Spending time with muggles, learning about 'em an' all that shite? Bloke probably knows 'em as well as you two by now." The last part was almost unintelligible as he took a great bite from a waffle heaped with cream-topped strawberries. "Mmm, this is delicious."

Harry, poking at a square-cut bit of melon with a fork, watched his friend gobble down copious amounts of food. His expression was a little odd, and Ron, hastily chewing through the last couple pieces, raised his eyebrows at him.

"What's wrong, mate? It's all good, even if it is Malfoy's."

Harry's fork stabbed the melon, piercing it right through and hitting the plate with a clink. "It's just… the strangest feeling hit me. I mean, look at us! The three of us, in Malfoy Manor, having brunch! In the generational seat of pureblood supremacy! Not four years ago, we were dragged here, locked in the dungeons, and Hermione…"

The girl glanced curiously between the two of them when Harry cut himself off. She had already figured out many things, but some - like what exactly Harry was referring to right now - were still a mystery. She held her questions, however, figuring that asking them would just be a waste of time. Her memories would be fully restored soon anyway, so she could wait.

"How many Death Eaters sat at this very table?" Harry continued meanwhile. "How many plans to kidnap, torture and kill were hatched right where we sit? And now we're the ones sitting here, eating. I don't know. I look all around and I'm reminded that so much of the evil we fought was born in places just like this."

Ron stared at all the bounty before him: the cold cuts of turkey and ham, piles of golden waffles and pancakes, eggs, both scrambled and boiled, glistening peaches and apricots, strawberries, blueberries, blood-red cherries so ripe they were bursting with flavor, and a whole platter of cheeses. It was an extravagant display.

"I dunno, Harry," he replied. "I get where you're coming from, but… all I see is food."

. . . .

 **. . . .**

They made a brief stop at Grimmauld Place to retrieve Harry's invisibility cloak before apparating to St. Mungo's. The reason behind this was that foul play was still the lead theory behind Hermione's disappearance and memory loss, so they had agreed to keep her discovery a secret for now. Thus, Hermione, wedged between her two friends like a piece of cheese in a sandwich, shuffled through the wide oak doors that connected the hospital's designated apparating area to the main building.

Covered by the cloak, she had to deftly sidestep a group of witches and wizards that practically mugged Harry and Ron for autographs when they appeared in the lobby. Harry seemed a bit flustered by this, while Ron took it in stride, smiling, laughing and even giving a peck on the cheek to several lucky girls, who swooned with delight.

Needless to say, there was no waiting in line for the great Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, Heroes of The War.

10 minutes later, they were ushered into a cabinet on the third floor; Hermione, still concealed, spied a plaque on the door that read: M.W. Frackenburger, Head of Nueromagic. Trying her best to suppress a very unladylike chortle at such a ridiculous name, she stepped through the door. The owner of the office, a portly man in his 60's with sideburns that belonged in the 18'th century, stood to greet them.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley. A pleasure!" he said, extending his hand. "I was just notified you required an emergency consultation- oh, I say!" The last bit was directed at Hermione, who had removed the cloak. "Where did you… ah, most fascinating! An invisibility cloak! Very rare, very rare indeed. My great-grandfather had one; lost it in a game of cards, sadly, as well as half the family fortune. Rather excitable fellow, I've heard; why, one only had to mention bridge, and he… but, of course, you are not here to indulge an old man's tales. Ms. Granger, unless my eyes deceive me? Please, please, have a seat."

They sat and Hermione, for what seemed like the fifth time within a single day, repeated her story; the doctor, withdrawing a Quick-Notes Quill from a breast pocket, asked several clarifying questions during her tale.

"I see, I see," the professor hummed when she was done. "Well, from the description of your symptoms alone, it sounds like a regular class 3 obliviate charm. Any professional in the field would recognize it for the emotional volatility alone. Another distinctive feature is the gradual degradation. You mentioned increasing amounts flashbacks and dreams, yes? That's the structure of the charm slowly breaking down, allowing you glimpses into your past. This is very good news for you, as a patient. It's completely reversible. I'll have to confirm the diagnosis first, though. If I may?" His hands made an impatient motion towards to her.

At her grateful nod, Frackenburger, instead of reaching for his wand, quickly got up and, quicker than a cheetah pouncing on a gazelle, circled his desk and grasped her head.

"Err... Doctor?" Harry's bewilderment mirrored her own.

"Yes, yes, just remain still, dear." Hermione flinched as he started to prod, jab and rub her skull.

"Mmm, such wonderful texture. The proportions are marvelous, it takes only one look at the forehead to see that." His chubby fingers reached around to part her hair, and then cupped the back of her head. "And those ridges on the occipital bone, so smooth, so defined, yes... they speak to a great mind, you know. You aced your NEWTS, yes?"

Hermione, starting to feel rather violated by the suddenly physical examination, grunted an affirmative.

"Of course you did. Your intelligence is well known, well known indeed. And its roots are right here. Such beauty. Such grace." His voice took on a whimsical quality, and he was still fondling her head. "Tell me, Ms. Granger, have you considered becoming an organ

donor?"

"I beg your pardon?" she replied with a sense of increasing alarm.

"You have a phenomenal mind," he explained, as if it were the most obvious thing the world. Which, it was, but he was drawing a very disturbing implication from it.

"Truly phenomenal, indeed," he repeated. "It would be a criminal act to lose it in the case of your likely demise. Unlikely! Pardon me. Unlikely demise, of course. I have a collection of sorts here, at the hospital. Adding your brain tissue would be a great, great honor."

"You… you are being serious?!"

"Ms. Granger-Hermione. May I call you that? The research value alone from a brain of your caliber would be incalculable! As a woman of science, you must understand that! Additionally, we accept all financial responsibility for removal, transportation and storage. Your loved ones won't have to worry about a thing."

Finally removing his hands, he returned to his desk and smiled genially at her. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that the trio's eyes were as wide as saucers; Ron looked like he was about to burst out laughing.

"My loved ones…" she repeated dumbly, shocked.

"Yes, and, if you're troubled by the funeral, don't be. Removing a brain causes no disfigurement whatsoever, giving you the option of a wonderful open casket ceremony! No one will be the wiser."

"I'll… I'll be sure to take that under consideration. Could… we have a couple minutes to discuss this amongst ourselves?"

"Ah? Of course! I'll give you the room, have a nurse prep an OR. Just step outside when you're ready!"

The second he was out of the room, Ron fell to the ground in a roaring laugh.

"Her-, Her-, Hermione," he choked out. "The look on his face when he was-"

Harry chuckled as well. "He was reaaalllyyy into it."

"Oh, be quiet. I feel positively violated as it is."

"Ooohh," Ron suddenly moaned in a poor imitation of Frackenburger's voice, making a fondling motion with his fingers. "These ridges on your Acclipital bone, Ms. Granger. They're sooo good. Oh, yes, Ms. Granger, YES-"

"It's occipital, and it's really not… not funny" Despite her protests, she giggled at Ron's antics. "That man is the very definition of obsessed. 'I would be honored to house your brain tissue', honestly."

"Does remind you a little of someone though, doesn't it?" Harry raised his eyebrows suggestively, and then crooned in a high-pitched voice, "Oh, this new edition of Hogwarts: A History is so big,-"

"-And, it has a whole new chapter on house-elf history!" Ron picked up with a wide grin, wiping tears from his eyes. "Touch it, Harry, feel how hard the cover is! Feel the grooves-"

"Oh, shut it, you two! You're worse than children." It didn't take a genius to figure out who they were ribbing, and it was not amusing, not at all, even if there was a traitorous smile plastered across her face.

"Alright, alright, that's enough!" She was forced to deal out some good-natured punches to stop their mirth. "Mark my words, I get my memory back - I'll have my revenge!"

"Just don't make us study, please."

She huffed and rolled her eyes. Despite her act, however, it felt so amazing to be with people who, even in spite of their teasing, meant the best for her. Their conversations flowed naturally, and she knew she could share anything with them.

"But, in all seriousness, he's head of nueromagic. He has to know what he's doing, right?"

"He's eccentric, sure, but the nurse downstairs said he's the best in the field. What do you think, Hermione?"

"I shudder to think he'll have his way with my brain," she replied, holding up a fist to wipe the smirks from their faces. "It's very dear to me! But, I think he's competent enough, so yes. I'm ready. A little anxious to get it over with, actually."

Offering words of encouragement, Harry and Ron followed her outside, where Dr. Frackenburger was waiting, pacing excitedly.

"All ready then? But where is…?"

"She's here," Harry explained, making a gesture to his left.

"Ah, the cloak. Of course. Follow me, then."

"The procedure in non-intrusive, but I will put Ms. Gr- the patient to sleep," the doctor explained as they walked. "A resting mind is much more easier to screen, as the readings aren't clouded by conscious thought. With luck, I'll confirm my initial diagnosis, and we'll follow up with treatment."

"And that would take…?"

"For a class 3 obliviate, an hour or two at the most, Mr. Weasley. Your friend will wake up as if from a long dream, access to all memory restored. Ah, here we are!"

He led the group into a well-lit OR with an empty gallery on one side. A sterile-white chair stood in the middle of the room, adjacent to

a large tank filled with a wispy liquid. It reminded Harry of a pensieve, but it was much larger.

"A projector!" Frackenburger eagerly explained, seeing the confused glances of the young people. "I will be able to literally project Ms. Granger's brain activity within its depths, allowing for three-dimensional observation and study. An ingenious creation. One of my own, actually, if I may so humbly add!"

"Now, Ms. Granger, if you would be so kind," he said, handing her a vial filled with some pink salts. "Three sniffs will do! Careful, no more! It has a very potent soporific effect, very potent indeed. So, three sniffs, and into the chair, and you'll wake up refreshed and, hopefully, in full possession of all your memories."

Hermione, suspiciously glancing at the vial in her hand, tugged on Harry and Ron's elbows, pulling them close.

"Do keep a leash on him, will you?" she whispered urgently. "Make sure he doesn't get too… excited."

Ron grinned; Harry nodded solemnly, but a mischievous twinkle in his eyes made her glower threateningly. That did the trick, and both boys quickly promised to do their best.

Thinking that too much thinking can be counterproductive at times, Hermione uncapped the vial, taking three sniffs, - no more, no less - and, swaying slightly, reaching the chair, promptly collapsed onto the rigid leather.

Her last thoughts were of Draco. She had to find him and express her gratitude for helping her. Her really deserved it…

His patient comfortably asleep, the doctor rubbed his hands together with an almost mad delight.

"Now then!" he exclaimed eagerly, and his wand emitted the first sparkle of a diagnostic spell.

Frackenburger's wand work efficient, Harry had to give him that. The old professor yelled out a whole string of complicated spells, his form taut, his wand darting as quickly as the biting sting of a fencer's rapier. A soft, shimmering glow started to fill the tank in front of them, and dazzling, electrifying lights danced within. They darted to and fro with blinding speed, slowly growing in number and consistency, forming vague shapes and scintillating structures. It was one of the most pure and beautiful things Harry had ever seen. Hermione's brain, he thought with irony, a part of him now understanding the eagerness Frackenburger had expressed upon meeting her.

Frackenburger's voice rose in volume and intensity; his wand a dazzling blur. A power coursed through him, bowing magic to his will. Harry's hair stood on end, as static formed in the room. With one great shout, the doctor made a cutting movement with his wand, and all the gathered energy rushed towards the center of the room.

Frackenburger, his face streaked with sweat, sagged to the floor. He was panting, but declined Ron's offer of assistance. He righted himself and looked at the image in the tank.

It was still white. Nothing changed for several moments.

And then…

A darkness formed within. Like a mold, it spread, dimming the light, consuming its very spirit. It felt ominous, like a storm on the horizon. It reeked of forbidden magic.

"This is not an obliviate charm."

Harry, worried, shared a confused look with a Ron before turning to the exhausted doctor.

"Then, what is it?"

Frackenburger sighed, rubbing his temples, catching his breath. "Mr. Potter," he wheezed, "I have worked here, at St. Mungo's, for 36 years, 20 of them as head of my department. I have seen all sorts of head trauma and injuries, and I've specialized in dealing with spells and curses that target the mind. This is, most undoubtedly, a most heinous curse, but I have never seen anything like it."

Ron was about to interrupt, demanding to know how treatable it was, but Frackenburger spoke first.

"I can, however, tell you who cast it."

"Well, don't keep us guessing then!" Ron practically yelled after several seconds of silence. "Who is it?"

Frackenburger sighed wearily. When he spoke, his voice was heavy and distant.

"Several years ago, the number of patients coming in for treatment was… well, you two know how it was. Everyday, new bodies, tortured, cut, mutilated. Many victims of the cruciatus, many turned into puppets by the imperious. Minds burned, memories wiped. All treated by me and my team. You see, both those unforgivables are prime examples of nueromagic, as they target centers in the brain."

He paused, taking a deep breath, and Harry noticed that the doctor's fingers were trembling lightly.

"It's a funny thing, mind magic," he then continued. "Very intricate, very precise. Most other branches of magic, like charms or transfiguration - they don't need that. It's just raw will, power, incantations and wand waving for them. You cannot differentiate one stupefy from another, for example. They're all the same. But the mind is such a delicate medium, and the spells that alter it so definitive, that each caster's influence will be just a little bit different. Just enough variation to set apart one person from another. Like fingerprints, each curse on the mind can be traced to a specific person."

His eyes turned hollow as he spoke, raw pain flashing over his face as he remembered the hoarse screams of his tortured patients.

"Among those who were sent to us for treatment, there was a group we could never heal. The curses on their minds were so potent, their suffering so great… euthanizing them was a mercy, a true mercy, indeed…" He shuddered, chilled by the haunting memories. "They were all victims, as we found out later, of one man. His spells possessed a certain signature, a taint that was instantly recognizable. We feared it so much, because someone hit by this man had almost no chances of survival. I would recognize his spells anywhere. Just as I recognize it now, in Ms. Granger."

"And he was…" choked out Harry, dreading the reply.

"A man you know all too well, Mr. Potter," the doctor answered sadly, and Harry paled, his scar suddenly burning with a long-forgotten pain.

"Voldemort," he hissed.


	10. Rightful Ire

It was past midnight when the fireplace in the Black ancestral home lit up with vibrant green flames, and a tired man stepped through, brushing soot off his cloak. The fire died quickly, but enough light remained in the glowing embers for him to remove his glasses and wipe them absentmindedly with the hem of his shirt. It had been a trying day. The relief he felt from Hermione's return had been replaced by another agonizing worry, and they were still uncertain as to the particulars of the vile spell within her. They had awoken her and discussed the news at length as a group. In the end, Hermione agreed to stay at St. Mungo's for the near future; meanwhile, Dr. Frackenburger would be observing and analyzing all the data available. Their group's next actions, however, had been subject to a bitter dispute. Harry shuddered as he recalled the nervous, angry voices that had reverberated in-between the OR's sterile walls when Voldemort's name was mentioned.

" _He is dead, Harry. Dead. Two hundred people saw him burn to ashes! There was nothing! You don't… you_ _ **do not**_ _come back from that."_

" _You really want to take that chance, Ron? After he came back once already? After so many died in the last war? You, of all people-"_

" _Don't. Don't bring Fred's death into this to make a point."_

" _But it does concern everyone! We can't sit idly by-_

" _So what do you want to do?! Because I know what you're thinking, Harry, and you want to make this official!"_

" _Damn right I do! If we come out in advance of this, get an investigation going, warn people-"_

" _Oh, I can see tomorrow's spread in the Daily Prophet already! 'Harry Potter and Crazy Doctor Prophesise Third Coming of You-Know-Who!' Because that went over so well last time."_

" _Things are different now-"_

" _No, they're not! You think that just because you're a hero people will listen to you? Some might, yeah, but the majority will turn on you quicker than you can say 'Crucio'! Vol… Voldemort is a word that still terrifies people! Everyone will hide their heads in the sand, while committing you to this exact mental ward, right here! 'Arry Potter,' they'll say, munching on biscuits during morning tea. 'Went a bit crazy after the war. All that trauma, you know, what a shame.' You want to go through that again?!"_

" _Ok, stop it, you two!" Hermione's voice cut in. "Ill girl with evil unknown spell inside her head right here, remember? No more yelling. We can figure this out."_

 _The tension in the room dissipated as both young men took a breath. Frackenburger, who had been present during their argument, ignored them entirely, his gaze chained to the shining squiggly lines inside his projector tank. "Fascinating, utterly fascinating," he would mutter time from time._

 _Harry sighed, rubbing his forehead. He needed a good night's rest. They all did._

" _Harry," Ron suddenly gulped, seeing his friend's actions. "Your scar… it hasn't…?"_

" _What?" Harry realized what he was doing and tore his hand away. "Oh, no. Nothing like that. But then, with the horcrux gone, there shouldn't be any connection anyway. So if this isn't some mistake, then I wouldn't know about it. I think."_

" _Ok, I am sick of hearing things that I only have a tentative grasp on. I really want my mind whole already." Hermione sounded annoyed and miffed at the same time. "Harry, I'm sorry to say this, but Ron's right. From what I've gathered so far, even a single mention of this Voldemort character can cause a panic. I feel foul just uttering that name, even without any distinct memories of who he was or what he did. We cannot be certain that the good doctor is right, and, even if he is, there could be a number of other explanations. So let's keep this between us for now, while the professor and I treat my condition. We gather information and focus on restoring my memories. Then we work from there. Agreed?" Harry and Ron, weary from arguing, nodded. "Professor?"_

 _Frackenburger, completely entranced, didn't respond. His Quick-Notes Quill was in a frenzy, scribbling notes on a crumpled bit of parchment._

" _Professor!" Hermione raised her voice. "Prof- oh, it's useless. Ron, wake him up, will you?"_

 _Ron had to shake Frackenburger's shoulder to withdraw him from a state of academic zeal. He succeeded only on the third try._

" _Ah? Ah? Yes?" Frackenburger looked slightly dazed._

" _Have you heard a word we've said?"_

 _Frackenburger looked offended. Waving a dismissive hand in front of Ron's face, he scrunched his face into an irritated expression._

" _You mean all this distracting meaningless babble? No. Not a word. Now, if you please…"_

" _Ok, before you dive into your brain swamp, you listen here, professor. You don't speak a word of this to anyone! You got that? Not your wife, not your children, not even your cat, frog or goldfish! Most importantly, you do not mention that name outside this room! Understand?"_

" _I wasn't born yesterday, young man. Now, remove your…"_

After that, they had agreed to keep Hermione company in 12-hour shifts (to which she objected once, feebly), with Ron taking the first one. Harry would catch a bit of shut-eye before-

" _Harry Potter!"_

Startled back into the present, Harry whirled around, and was met with the absolutely livid eyes of his wife.

A twisting, guilty feeling formed in the pit of his stomach. In all of the recent events, neither he nor Ron had contacted Ginny or anyone else for that matter. Ginny was a strong woman, but she had already been forced to endure his absence during the war. That was in addition to the constant missions when you never knew if a friend or loved one would return home safe. She tried to hide it now, but Harry knew she worried when he was gone for too long. And he hadn't sent her a single note. In fact, he hadn't seen her at all in...

"Two days!" Ginny screeched, throwing a book in Harry's direction, which he barely managed to dodge. _A Modern Witch's Handbook: Your Daily Guide To Handy Spells and Incantations_ he read on the cover as it sailed by his nose, before shattering a vase on the mantlepiece into a million pieces.

"No word! No owl! Gone!"

Harry found himself in that unenviable position of a man who has wronged his spouse. It's a very common ailment of marriage, and no comprehensive cure has yet been discovered for its cause. Only the symptoms can be treated, which is where so many men fail. They tend to forget that if chocolates and a flower saved their neighbor's marriage, they should not assume the same will hold true in their case. A personal approach is required, but that means you have to pay attention to your partner. You need to listen to them and avoid needless provocations. Especially if they're already chucking books in your face.

Which is how Harry found himself crouching on the floor, using a couch for cover. A very wise and expedient choice, for _Quidditch through the Ages_ , followed by Gibbon's _The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ (tomes 2 and 3) crashed in quick succession all around him.

"Running around, worried sick all day! Asked everybody!"

"Ginny…"

"Mum almost had a fit when she heard! Both you and Ron missing!"

"Ginny…"

"DON'T YOU 'GINNY' ME! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN DEAD, FOR ALL I KNEW!"

Ginny's magic, fueled by anger and distress, swept through the room, upending chairs, knocking books from shelves, shattering glass. Harry yelped, feeling a sting on his cheek. He felt a warm, slippery wetness when he touched it.

"Oh, Merlin, baby." Ginny clasped her mouth, horrified, anger slipping away. She rushed over to kneel by her husband. "I'm so sorry. Are you alright?" Her frantic, shaking hands went to Harry's cheek, revealing a shallow cut.

"It's just a scratch, Gin." He sat up, engulfed by his wife's embrace.

"Oh, Gods, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I was so worried…" She sobbed, clutching his shoulder.

"No, honey," he whispered in her ear, hugging her back. "I'm sorry. It's my fault, I was so overwhelmed that I forgot… I should have owled you or sent a patronus or… well, anything."

"I know, but I shouldn't have yelled like that. I just…" Her wide, moist eyes were filled with worry and regret.

"I know."

Harry propped his back against the couch, keeping his arm around Ginny. She pressed into him, happy, so happy and relieved that he was ok.

"I went to your work," she murmured, wiping her eyes, and Harry felt another sting of shame that he forced her to such extremes. "Asked where you were."

"What did they tell you?"

Ginny made a disgusted noise.

"I ran into that fat-faced bastard Rawlings. He had the fucking audacity to hint that it's natural for men to stray sometimes. I almost hexed his arse right there."

"He shouldn't have said that. Rawlings talks too much."

"No shit. It took all I had to wait until he finally babbled that he'd seen you overnight on a mission."

"Did you hex him them?"

"You bet I did," she replied with a cheeky grin. "He had a quaffle-sized pimple growing on one of his asscheeks by the time I left."

"Mmm, good girl." Harry nuzzled against Ginny's neck, breathing in a sweet floral scent. "New perfume?"

A trace of a smile ghosted over Ginny's lips as she tilted her head so that Harry's lips found her ear. He nibbled on it, bringing forth a content sigh.

"Maybe." Her breaths became heavier, hands came to ruffle his hair.

"I like it," Harry said, as his fingers traced her sides and reached under her blouse.

Ginny turned, meeting his loving eyes, their breaths mixing together. "So will you tell where you were?"

"I'll tell you everything," whispered Harry, sliding his hands a bit higher. "In a bit…"

* * *

 **To all of you that have left reviews, thank you very much. It fuels the writing engine!**


	11. Unintended Consequences

**This chapter takes a very dark turn, and I have changed the story's rating to reflect that.**

 **This story is now rated 'M'.**

* * *

Harry, Ron and Ginny spent the next week visiting Hermione in St. Mungo's. She was very active, assisting Frackenburger with research during the day and re-discovering the many delights of the wizarding world at night. At her behest, Harry and Ron made over a dozen trips to Flourish and Blotts, hauling back a rather eclectic selection of books, ranging from dry academic analysis of goblin revolts in the 13'th century to cheesy veela romance novels. Hermione claimed the latter was a mistake, but Ron swore he saw the edge of one peeking out from beneath a set of pillows. After a very short yet brutal argument, Ron capitulated, admitting that he had probably made a mistake.

On several evenings, the group apparated to Diagon Alley. Hermione, covered by Harry's invisibility cloak, wandered with them through magical streets, barely able to contain her excitement at the wonders surrounding her. Later, she would remember these promenades as one of the happiest times of her life; once again, she was able to experience the fantasy that her 11-year-old self had lived through. This world of magic and sorcery, of quirky magical bookshops and apothecaries carrying rare potions' ingredients, of stores and stalls selling all sorts of wizarding paraphernalia - this was her world, and she belonged here.

The pinnacle of all joy, however, came at end of the week. A quick jerk, followed by the momentary darkness and disorientation of side-along apparition, and she opened her eyes to a majestic castle backlit by a blazing sunset. Its spires reached for the heavens, caressing the darkening hues of the evening sky. Flags depicting a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a serpent rippled under a frosty northern wind, while sharp-beaked creatures soared on outstretched wings between its many towers.

It was then, with a sharp pang of sadness, that she saw parts of the castle were damaged. Courtyards and quads were blackened in places where fire once roared; several towers had crumbled and were never rebuilt; walls were pockmarked with signs of destruction.

"Four years, still not done," Ginny remarked bitterly, looking at the unfinished state of repairs.

"It's slow going," Harry sighed. "You remember how bad it was."

They had all contributed their time to the school's reconstruction, but the damage had been great.

"Still," the red-haired girl protested, "the Ministry keeps upping taxes for rebuilding efforts, and that's in addition to all the fines and seizures on Voldemort affiliates. So where's all that money going? Why isn't Hogwarts restored yet?"

Harry and Ron shrugged; it was a good question.

The never entered the castle, but spent their time lazing by the lake, skipping stones over the clear waters, until the giant squid got fed up with them and started throwing the stones back.

Later that night, when Hermione was tucked in her room at St. Mungo's, Frackenburger's diagnostic spells cocooning her form, she remembered that she had seen Hogwarts in her dreams during those horrid months in the muggle world. She fell asleep with a smile on her lips.

Only one thing disrupted these placid days. In moments of spare time, Hermione's thoughts would incessantly turn towards Draco. It was because she owed him a debt, she told herself, and was unhappy with how they left things. So she borrowed Harry's owl and quilled a letter to the blond wizard, explaining where she was, and would he visit her? He declined, claiming he was indisposed, and she frowned when she read his curt reply; why was he avoiding her? She had half a mind to just show up unannounced at his estate, but time wasn't on her side. Maybe, she thought, when all this dreadful business was over, she could bake him something as a thank you? Then she recalled the luxurious breakfast spread she had been treated to, and her mood darkened. She and her plebeian ideas and stupid cakes had no place in-between all that opulence. She spent the rest of the day snapping at Frackenburger and then Ron, leaving both men bewildered.

Still, Draco persisted on her mind, no matter how much she tried to push him away. Frustrated, she promised herself that she would resolve the issue as soon as possible.

But that would have to be postponed, as Frackenburger finally concluded a series of simulations in his projector tank. The results were definitive; the spell, they agreed, could be safely lifted, and announced this to the rest of the group on the next day.

The four of them - five, including the doctor - gathered in Hermione's room. It had been easy for Frackenburger (as head of a department) to procure it, and now it looked almost homely, with stacks of books and writing materials spaced between whirring medical machines, the projector, and various diagnostic equipment.

Two large presentation boards, covered by parchment and posters, stood against one of the walls. Obscure calculations, diagrams, arrows and different-colored notes filled their expanse. Ron and Harry couldn't make head-or-tails of it, and Ginny didn't even try, plopping down on the bed instead.

"Whow there, careful, pregnant girl." Harry grinned.

Ginny growled and curled her hand into a fist, which she then promptly waved in her husband's general direction.

Her sudden pregnancy had become a bit of a running joke between them, with Ron and Harry finding it much more amusing than the witch. The reason behind it was that while Hermione was reasonably concealed within the hospital's walls by Frackenburger's authority and Harry's cloak, the rest of the gang had no such protection. Naturally, their continued visits to St. Mungo's had drawn interest and speculation, and it had all come to a head on the third day when a group of journalists blindsided them at the entrance.

"Mrs. Potter! Mrs. Potter!" A raven-haired reporter from a certain tabloid jumped up and down from excitement. "Can you confirm reports of your pregnancy? Are congratulations in order?!"

A gaggle of voices followed her question, any possible answer drowning in the commotion. Ginny, thinking quick on her feet, realized this was the perfect cover for the true nature of their visits. So, instead of shoving the recorders and flashing cameras up some very dark places (places proper ladies shouldn't think about, she reminded herself), she just batted her eyes and smiled ambiguously.

The next morning, _Witch Weekly_ ran a three-page spread on Ginny's supposed fragile state, weaving together baseless rumors, assumptions, and 'unnamed sources close to the family' with the deftness of a spider on steroids. They managed to cover Harry's life as well, reminding their readers of his tragic childhood (' _Those muggles forced him to breed snakes and drink snail juice, I seen it meeself,' states Mundungus Fletcher, who has remained a very close friend to The Boy-Who-Lived.'),_ as well as providing freshly captivating information from the war (' _Several researchers continue to speculate that Harry Potter is You-Know-Who's secret bastard child...')._

 _The Daily Prophet,_ its editors restrained by the unfortunate fact that they represent a much more reputable source of information, limited themselves to only a front page cover ( _continued on pg. A3)._

It was a brilliant plan, really. Right up until a deluge of mail swamped the Potter family residence, spearheaded by Molly Weasley's excited owl. The elder witch floo'd in only moments later, running to her baby girl, gushing with delight, and tears of happiness streaming down her face. It was awkward. Ginny, dressed in only a nighty, had been forced to play along and pretend she really had conceived. She was not looking forward to telling her mother the truth. Honestly, by this point, it was easier to just get pregnant then explain the nuances of the situation.

"So, Doctor, is it true then?"

Only a deaf man would have failed to detect the eagerness in Harry's voice. They all were thrilled to hear this news: that Hermione was safe, that the dark magic could be burned away, and that she could come home soon. But for the two aurors it was more than that. Retrieving Hermione's memories meant they would be one step closer to whoever did this to her, and their instincts were tingling with anticipatory vengeance. The hunt would continue, and they would apprehend whoever did this, be it Voldemort himself.

Frackenburger took a sip of Pepper-Up potion before responding. He looked every bit his age now. Dark circles rimmed his bloodshot eyes, and several lines of fatigue cut through an unshaven face. He had invested much of the last week into studying Hermione's condition, often sleeping in short increments of time on a couch in his office.

"Indeed, Mr. Potter. The magic should be simple to lift. In fact, it has significantly deteriorated on its own. Without intervention, it will leave Ms. Granger's system within a month."

"Well, that doesn't sound too dangerous, then." Ginny noted hopefully.

"If that were only so. This is the most complex spellwork I have ever encountered," Frackenburger countered. "You too, in fact, although you fail to realize it just yet."

"Well, you'd be surprised, doc," Ron interjected, a bit offended by the condescending tone.

"No, Mr. Weasley, I would not. The dark magic of a horcrux, to which you are no doubt referring, is child's play by comparison."

"And, how would you know about them, exactly, Professor?" Harry asked sharply. While the legend of the Deathly Hallows had been widely circulated in post-war society, the horcrux hunt remained a well-kept secret. Or so he thought.

Frackenburger hesitated a little before answering.

"Mr. Potter," he finally said, choosing his words carefully. "In certain circles, the secret behind You-Know-Who's resurrection - if you could call it that - is very well known. I do not have the specifics, of course, and no one should hold knowledge of such vile magic, but the gist… well, the story has been whispered among-"

"Among certain groups," Harry finished for him. "Pureblood groups, I understand? Those never caught directly supporting Voldemort, but unsatisfied with current standings?"

"Mr. Potter, please. I refuse to discuss politics, my job is my life. In any case, I believe your friend is more important than your auror duties, yes?"

Harry, feeling chastised, nodded. Not only was now an improper time for distractions, but Frackenburger was harmless; he just cared about brains. Possibly, too much, but then we all have our vices.

"As I was saying," the doctor cleared his throat. "This is the most complex spell, well, it's not a spell, per say, not a spell indeed…"

"If I may, Professor?" Hermione interrupted, seeing as he had started to ramble. "What Dr. Frackenburger is saying, is that this is not just one spell. It's several dozen, layered one upon another. Together, they form a cohesive whole, whose purpose we don't yet fully understand, although we have several theories. On an individual level, however, we have been able to identify some of their functions. I won't bore you with specific details, but…"

"Oh, Ms. Granger, you're not sharing the most groundbreaking news!" The doctor, giddy with excitement, broke in. "You see, we were able to replicate its structure in the projector. Then, we introduced a toxic environment, and observed it exhibiting an aversion to harmful stimuli! This is phenomenal!"

"Hermione, translate that to english, please," Ron said.

"We tried to kill it and it defended itself."

"Wait," Ginny knit her brows in concentration. "Isn't that, like, impossible? One of the fundamentals of magic is that it can't create life. Or do you mean like a snitch that's been charmed to avoid capture?"

"No, Gin, I'm afraid it's not like a snitch. Objects can be imbued with certain magical properties, true, but this is so much more than that. It's reaction… it's almost like it possessed an intelligence. When faced with danger, its response was preemptive in many cases: it restructured itself, it fought off the threats, and, if that wasn't successful, it made numerous copies and tried to escape containment. Presumably, to infect other hosts. Survival through propagation, if you will."

Now Harry looked troubled as well. "You mean… like a virus?"

"Exactly, Harry. This is, for lack of a better term, a magical virus."

"And, it's purpose?"

"Like I said, we're not sure. So far, we only know what some of its parts are programmed to do."

"And what exactly is that then?"

Frackenburger jumped in again at that question.

"Well, Mr. Weasley, the spell is structured in such a way that once it enters the host, it targets several key components. Look this way."

The doctor pointed to the projector tank where the form of a brain was represented by white, translucent lines. Between them, streaks of gray and black floated, like an oil spill on water.

"This band, for example," he said, pointing to a particularly thick spiral in the tank, "connects to the brainstem, where it leeches off the host's magic, effectively forming a parasitical relationship. Here," his finger moved a little, "we see it stretching to the amygdala. Then the frontal lobes. The hippocampus. And many more." His index finger singled out a dozen more bands of magic stretching throughout the image.

"And that means…"

Hermione answered this question.

"The virus has the ability to cause auditory and visual hallucinations. It can also mess with your emotions; for example, by stimulating the amygdala, it may cause sudden bouts of intense fear or anger. The spread of the disease to the frontal lobes is also a very troubling matter. That's the part of your brain that contains your personality; it's literally who you are. We think it can influence that. It feeds off its hosts. That means it's self-sustaining: it dies only when the host dies. Basically, it can control your emotions, make you see or hear things that aren't there, affect memory, and it might be able to change the fundamental traits that determine your personality. And that's only the parts that we've deciphered."

"Damn," Ginny whistled. "That's one piece of work. But, wait a minute. If it's as terrible as you say it is… why are you fine? I mean, it just affected your memory, right?"

"Very perceptive, Mrs. Potter. Indeed, Ms. Granger's symptoms are but a fraction of the virus's true potential. The issue is that this virus is inactive. Only a small portion of all the spells within it are currently operational; the rest lie dormant."

"And how would it become active?"

"One can only guess. Another spell, perhaps? A magical artifact? Ms. Granger and I have only had a week for research; given more time, maybe an answer can be found. The good news, however, is that the magic has begun to break down. In a passive state, this virus appears capable of existing for only several months - maybe half a year - within a host. Then atrophy sets in, and it slowly withers away. Which is why Ms. Granger has been experiencing repetitive flashbacks. Her memory, most of it anyway, has begun to return on its own."

"Most of her memory?"

"That's what we think. Some things may have been lost irreversibly, especially around the time when the virus was 'fresh'. We'll see."

"Looks like you'll finally know more than Hermione, Ron," Ginny grinned. "And all it took was her losing all her memory."

"Oh, shut up, Gin."

"Doctor," Harry interrupted the bickering siblings. "Last time we spoke about this, you mentioned that Voldemort was the architect of this magic. Are you still confident in that claim?"

"Undoubtedly, Mr. Potter. But, this virus is capable of self-replication. It's possible that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named created it many years ago, and his construct simply outlived him. Alas, we can only speculate."

The group fell silent, digesting this hoard of news. Frackenburger waited patiently for several minutes.

"Any more questions?" he finally asked, and seeing them shake their heads, turned to Hermione. "Ms. Granger, are you ready?"

"Wait, Professor, Hermione," Harry held his hand up. "You're sure about this?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Potter. There's no need for worry. In its weakened state, this spell is unable to resist, and there should be no adverse effects following its removal. Ms. Granger?"

"I'll be fine, Harry."

Harry saw Hermione walk over to the chair next to Frackenburger and sit down. She looked just like she did before exams in school: tense despite hours of preparation and study. She gave them all a small, nervous smile, and they reciprocated with words of encouragement. She closed her eyes. Frackenburger raised his wand, and...

 _She gasps, remembering the birthdays her parents held for her, the sparkling candles on sugar-free cakes, the tenderly wrapped presents. Usually, it's just the three of them. She doesn't have many friends, most children her age choosing to ignore or belittle the strange, precocious girl. They don't understand her obsession with learning, her willingness to raise her hand first in class._

 _Unexplainable things happen near her sometimes. "Weirdo!" other kids yell, pelting her with dirt. But her parents are always there, loving and supportive. They take her on trips, going as a family to fun, exciting places. They indulge her curiosity, always motivating her to grasp new fragments of knowledge. She loves them very much, and they return the affection wholeheartedly._

Oh, how evilly she repaid their kindness, she thinks with regret.

 _But then - the letter! She's eleven, and a whole new world welcomes her with the promise of a new beginning. She meets new friends, masters new subjects. She cheers for Harry as he catches the snitch; she spends nights at the library, surrounded by dusty tomes, writing essays on scrolls of parchment._

 _The years flash by, growing darker, more troublesome. A shadow overtakes the horizon, but with her friends, with Harry and Ron, she can face anything. She'll do anything for her boys, and together they run and fight and run again! A mistake happens, a slip of the tongue, and she's writhing on a cold floor in agony, a mad, cackling voice booming above her. "Mudblood filth!" it hisses with glee, and pain explodes in arm, as a blond boy looks upon her with haunted eyes._

 _The last months of the war flicker before her; the last battle looms. The bitch that tortured her lies on the ground, dead and gone. Harry, torn and bloodied, stands in the center of the room, triumphant. Bodies all around, blood, blood everywhere, but they won! The menace is gone, it's just ashes spread over mud._

 _The next several years tumble in like leaves carried by a turbulent wind of returning memories. She tries to heal from the war, distancing herself from Ron. She can't manage to be part of a relationship; physical closeness and intimacy are repulsive to her, and it takes over a year to muster the strength for such a simple act as a hug._

This is strange, a part of her thinks. There isn't anything in her past to justify such trauma, is there? Is something hidden deeper? Something she locked away from herself?

 _But that thought flits away, and she's treated to recollections of her professional endeavors, as she buries herself into work at the Ministry. She can make her world so much better! She will eliminate prejudice, fighting for the rights of those who can't protect themselves! Muggleborns or magical creatures - it doesn't matter! She frowns on the despotic, suffocating terms placed on many purebloods by the new Ministry. It's a failure of justice, and both the guilty and innocent are smited by the oppressive fist of the law. But before she can focus her attention on that, a new threat rears its head – this time, in the muggle world. She spends weeks and months chasing elusive threads, finally quitting her job at the Ministry. More time passes, and she's closing in. Just a little more information, and she can bring this to Harry and Ron; together, just like old times, they can overcome any obstacle, wipe away any evil. But, something happens, and she's lost… lost… lost... A train. A blond wizard. The Manor. And she's here._

She breathes out slowly. They have to hurry. So much time has been already lost, because she was so foolish and kept things to herself. She'll fix that tonight. She'll tell them everything. She'll—

 _Without warning, something else creeps forward. Something hitherto banished to a tiny, dark crevasse in the very rear of her mind. A memory she has suppressed for years, never sharing the story with her friends, coping in her own ways. It slithers in like a foul, slimy worm, bringing with it the nauseating stench of moldy wood and rotting vegetables. It carries the image of a dark cellar and a silver-masked figure towering above her. The feel of gnarled, dirty fingers tearing at her robes, leaving ugly, finger-shaped bruises; the sound of her hoarse screams sinking into wet dirt, as she desperately tries to fight off her assailant, but he's too big, and her wand just out of reach, and she's begging for him to stop, for anybody to help her, please, please, oh-_ No.

No.

That nightmare will not invade her mind again. Her stomach is heaving, and she wants to vomit. She bites her lip, a coppery, metallic taste invading her mouth. Taking short, quick breaths through her nose, she clenches hands into fists, fingernails digging crescent-shaped indentations into her skin. She pushes the memory back, back behind lock and key.

She has fought this battle for years, and won every time. It will not hold power over her. _It will not!_

She feels a hand on her shoulder, and a worried, caring voice speaks.

"Hermione, are you alright?"

She opens her eyes and lies to her best friend.

"I'm fine, Harry."

Harry blinked.

Hermione had shuddered, an anguished moan escaping her lips. He'd reached out instinctively then, wanting nothing more but to shoulder some of her suffering. Her past had bad memories; reliving just Bellatrix's torture must be agony. Still, Hermione had been able to overcome that trauma once. She could do it again, with all of them for support.

But then she opened her eyes, and he took an involuntary step back. The girl that stared back at him was not the Hermione from 5 minutes ago. An ocean of torment raged within this girl's caramel orbs, and her body sagged as if the sins of the whole world anchored her down. Is it her memories, he wondered? He couldn't remember a time when she displayed so much pain.

Then Harry blinked, and his friend was back, smiling at him with warmth and affection.

"I'm fine, Harry," she said, and touched her arm. "Just some old wounds resurfacing. I'm ok."

"Of course, 'Mione," he replied, soothed by the thought that her distress was short-lived. "You know, we're all here for you. Anything you need…"

"Harry! I know. And, I'm truly grateful. But, now's not the time for hug-therapy. Professor," she turned to Frackenburger. "Congratulations. Your spell was a success."

The old man preened.

"Well, don't sell yourself short, Miss Granger! Your assistance was welcome, very welcome indeed. If even a quarter of my staff had half your perception, inquisitiveness and work ethic, we'd clear out all out the cases in a month!"

"I was motivated," she replied, but dipped her head accepting the praise.

"Wait. Wait!" Ginny and Ron exclaimed. "So… it fully worked? You remember everything now?"

No one caught the tremble in her voice when she replied.

"Yes," she said. "Everything."

Her friends, bless them, cheered, erupting in a round of celebratory rowdiness. Harry and Ron clapped Frackenburger on the back, exclaiming they always believed in him, and he should come by the Burrow, meet Molly and Arthur! Ginny ran up to her, hugging her tightly. Looking at them, Hermione was almost happy. And if there were tears in her eyes, they were ones of happiness. Right?

The boys were getting carried away, meanwhile. She had the distinct feeling Harry and Ron were about to invite Frackenburger for a drink or two (or three) down at the pub, and she had to put a stop to that.

Disentangling herself from Ginny, Hermione summoned all of her strength to don the impenetrable façade she had hid behind for years. Compartmentalization was just another skill, acquired over time. Her friends didn't know the side of her that cried in raw pain on lonely nights, and she would keep it that way. Some things, you can't share; some things, you hide.

"Guys!" she yelled, trying to pierce through the happy commotion. "Ron! Harry! Hello! RON! Oh, bugger- Gin, hand me your wand?"

Ginny obliged, and a set of fireworks exploded with the force of a small cannon. That got the men's attention.

"What the bloody hell-" Harry began, covering his ears, but she cut him off.

"I'm sorry, everyone, we will celebrate later, I promise." She spoke, quelling the protests from Ron. "Right now, however, it is critical I tell you what happened to me, and the case I've been working on for over 18 months. This can't wait. We'll go to my house, I'll show you everything I've gathered. We have to pack and go. Please," she added and turned to Frackenburger. "Can I have a private word, Professor?"

The doctor nodded, and they stepped out into the hall. There were no other patients here; this area was part of Frackenburger's department, and it was deserted, enchantments barring it from the rest of the hospital.

Frackenburger turned to her with a fond gaze, and noticed a rare moment of indecisiveness in the intelligent girl. Whatever it was, he was more than ready to listen, a part of him secretly hoping that she would accept his recent offer of employment. Hermione was a natural with memory spells, and studious to boot; individuals like her were a priceless commodity. She would overtake the inept med students wasting their time in these halls within half a year; in five, she would have her own team, he had no doubt about that, no doubt indeed.

"What is it, my dear?" he asked kindly.

Hermione observed the tired man in front of her. He was a brilliant researcher and a diligent teacher. But he was also a man. And men are susceptible to weakness. He was part of this story now and a valuable asset. His work would be critical to healing the hundreds of people already infected. He also seemed to genuinely care for her. But would those feelings hold over time? The corruption inside the ministry reached far. Would he become a weak link in the chain if it grazed him? Could she trust him not to betray them?

The thought that the frail man in front of her was capable of deceit seemed ludicrous, but she had learned not to take any chances.

"There is a path," a dark, damaged part of her whispered. "A way to guarantee his loyalty."

Hermione twirled Ginny's wand between her fingers. Would she need it?

She had many teachers over the years, but her most influential one was the war. It taught her several brutal lessons, cementing them in the corners of her mind. There is no room for compassion when you're fighting for your life, is one. It just gets naive little girls caught. Another is that it's usually simpler to kill your enemies. Stunning spells often create problems, while killing ones do not. Harry and Ron don't know this, but _Avada Kedavra_ comes easily to her. _Crucio_ does too. She has enough anger to channel a fair share of dark curses. Has this broken her soul? She doesn't know. Maybe. Or maybe she was broken first, and this is just the result. She doesn't think about such things. They lead to sleepless, drunk nights, and nightmares when her exhausted body finally succumbs to the clutches of sleep.

In this state, she considered the option before her. _Imperio._ He would be hers, a puppet dedicated to finding a cure. It would also deter any potential betrayal, his loyalty to the cause ensured by potent dark magic.

"Do it," a dark voice hissed in her mind. "Just one spell! One! It'll be harmless, he won't be hurt. You have so much to gain…"

She looked down at Ginny's wand, her fingers clutching it with intensity. It would so easy. But it was Ginny's wand. She would be putting her friend at risk by using it to cast an unforgivable. And friends were her tether to sanity.

"Ms. Granger?" Frackenburger prompted, unaware that his fate was being determined.

Hermione made a decision.

She hugged him.

"I just wanted to say how thankful I am for all your help," she whispered.

"Oh, nonsense, nonsense! I haven't had this much fun in years!" There was a tremor in his voice, and, when she let go, he wiped his eyes.

"Pardon an old man," he said.

She smiled, and they returned to the group. 20 minutes later, Hermione, Harry, Ron and Ginny disapparated, leaving Frackenburger alone in an empty room. He didn't mind: he had a fascinating magical structure to study.

A long night lay ahead.

* * *

 **Draco hasn't been seen in some time. That will change.**

 **Also, thank you for your reviews. Seeing someone cares enough to comment on your story means a lot.**


	12. Malfoy No Wand In

After the war, Hermione purchased a small cottage out in the country and spent several months constructing a labyrinthine system of wards and incantations around it. Her defenses borrowed charms from both sides of the magical spectrum: light and dark. The latter was well-represented, as Hermione had managed to get her hands on several musty volumes of dark spells confiscated from Death Eater estates. The resulting blend enabled her home to withstand a small siege, and only then did Hermione breathe a little bit more freely.

The secluded location fit her as well. No one was there to bother her, as only the few people she trusted had access. More importantly, she felt safe, even if the costs of security were periodic moments of suffocating loneliness. Most nights, she thought she had the better end of that raw deal.

It was at this cottage that four ghostlike forms appeared, clutching each other's arms. A set of lanterns, swaying in the frosty wind, lit up with bluebell flames at their arrival, casting long shadows across a rugged, unkept lawn. An owl hooted in the distance, and a small animal bolted through the underbrush, scampering over a bed of crunchy leaves. The disturbance didn't last long: a rustle followed, and a solemn shriek pierced the night. Lasting but a moment, it passed, and then stillness, like a thick, woven blanket, descended upon the surrounding woods.

This was the silence of the wilderness. Its embrace is almost deafening at first; it's the quiet you hear by stepping from out of a crowded street into the sanctity of a temple. You walk between the dusty pews, your ragged breath and hammering heart drowning out all other sounds. But then, a minute passes, and your ears begin to pick up the creak of old wood, the distant noise of the street, the murmur of a hushed conversation. These woods were a temple too, devoted to the ancient gods of nature. Its steeple was the sun and the moon, its roof - the sky, its floor - the ground, and any parishioner was welcome to wander its halls of oak and ash and pine.

When her heart ached, and a longing crept upon her soul, this was the place to which Hermione retreated. These woods were her refuge, and seeing them once again made her spirit soar. The pain in the back of her mind - the one she constantly carried - lessened just one bit, but even that was a blessing.

"I forgot how serene it was here," Ginny whispered. Any louder seemed like sacrilege and the two boys nodded in agreement.

The wards, sensing their master, flared a deep blue and subsided. Hermione could feel they had been tampered with, that someone had failed at besting her defences. She had locked her home when she left, leaving Harry and Ron unable to enter, impeding the investigation into her own disappearance. She had done herself no favor; in fact, it had been a grave mistake. They could have found her had she left her home accessible. Instead, it had been blind luck stumbling into Malfoy… Draco.

Still, she never imagined her magic would hold out so long; after all, the ministry employed several competent wizards specializing in gaining access to warded properties.

"Who did you say the Ministry sent to lower my wards?" she asked, stepping onto an overgrown path that led to her front porch.

Harry named two of the Ministry's top ward-breakers.

Hermione hummed in response.

"So even those two couldn't get through. Huh. Well, I am somewhat surprised," she said, not even bothering to conceal the undercurrent of smugness flavoring her tone. "Although, I did experiment with with several spell combinations, but I would have expected them to figure it out. For example, the obvious application of Molotkov's third theorem within the outer perimeter in conjunction with-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah," Ron cut in quickly, nipping a soporific half-hour lecture on the history of ward creation in the bud. After everything that had happened, listening to what shrooms 7'th century pagan shamans inhaled to guard their villages was low on his list of priorities. Especially, if said lecture ended with a quiz, which they often did.

Fortunately, many years of interacting with Hermione meant he knew exactly what buttons to push.

"You're brilliant, Hermione, we know," he said in an almost dismissive fashion.

The witch reacted just as expected, smugness and satisfaction transforming into irritation at the blink of an eye.

"It's not _brilliance,_ Ronald," she snapped. "It's years of study and research, experiments and practice. You would know, if you ever read a decent book once in a while, instead of ogling the girls in _Quidditch World_. I didn't erect these wards-"

"Oh, tell me, was it hard? Erecting them?" he interrupted and broke out together with Harry into a fit of giggles. Hermione shared an exasperated look with Ginny. Girls matured earlier than boys, true, but one would think that fighting in a war would prevent these two from behaving like prepubescent-

"Children!" she huffed indignantly. "I am dealing with children!"

But she loved them, nevertheless.

Homecoming was strange. The door to her house swung open easily; everything inside was just as she had left it so many months ago. In fact, apart from a thin layer of dust and the husks of potted plants that had withered away, there was nothing to to say that she hadn't walked out just last night.

She stepped to side, letting her friends pass through. As they did, each froze in a state of shock.

Ron, the last one to enter, stumbled into his sister, before joining the group of dazed statues.

"Merlin's balls," he finally muttered, surveying the picture before him.

Hermione's living room, to anyone but her, seemed an unnavigable mess. Stacks of cardboard boxes reached the ceiling, while bits of parchment and paper were strewn over the floor in a mazelike fashion. All of this surrounded a giant map of Europe. Another map, of Great Britain this time, was plastered on the wall. Both of them boasted a colorful arrangement of red and yellow pins interconnected with string and wire. Some pieces of string led to other walls, connecting to hanging newspaper clippings, journal articles, some grainy photos and a set of 'Have you seen me' posters. Together, it was a picture of insanity.

Yet, to Hermione, the path from one end of the room to the other was as clear as a morning stroll in Hyde Park. This room was the final representation of months of work, all governed by an effectively meticulous system. She just needed to convince everyone else of that fact.

"Follow me. Carefully, please," she implored and deftly waded through the clutter. Her movements resembled a sort of dance; it had been rehearsed and perfected down to an exact science. One step here, move to the left, right foot there, and so on. Harry, Ron and Ginny followed her, circumnavigating the map of Europe, trying their best not to tread on anything of value. Which, knowing Hermione, could be anything.

The kitchen lit up with a cheerful glow at their entrance, revealing moss green walls encasing a rustic setting. The cabinets, table and chairs, decorated with a curlicue carved right into the wood, were all crafted by a local carpenter. A snow globe and a pair of small wooden sailboats - practically toys - rested on the countertop. The area over the table was adorned with two hand-painted reproductions of Turner's works: _The Fighting 'Temeraire'_ and _Peace - Burial at Sea._ Between them, completing the decor, was a photo from Hogwarts. Harry, Ron and Hermione were all smiling within the cherrywood frame, their childhood forms looking happy, carefree, and, oh, so innocent.

"Well that was something," Ginny said.

"When did you do all this, Hermione? The last time I was here-" Harry began and then stopped. He realized he hadn't actually been to Hermione's place… in well over a year. Even before she went missing, she had become almost a recluse, peeking out maybe once a month with a visit to the Burrow. How had he failed to notice this?

"As you can see, I was rather busy," she answered. "It's a long story, so- no, Ron, don't open-"

Ron had gone straight for the fridge, and can you really blame him? He was a healthy male in his early 20's, had a trying week, and hadn't had a full meal in ages. Well, maybe not _ages,_ but he was hungry. The fridge was barren, but the freezer had stacks upon stacks of small plastic tupperware containers. Ron took one out, ignoring Hermione's exclamation.

"Hey, Hermione, what's this?" he asked. "Pork? I'm sorry, but I'm starved. You mind if I-" He opened the lid, revealing some frozen gray tissue. It looked revolting. "Ew, what the fuck? _What is this?"_

Hermione stared at her friend. It was that trademark 'Hermione is disappointed' stare she gave to her friends when they asked to bail them out on homework (again), or when they pleaded to copy her essays for Binns' class (or any other one, for that matter).

"Well, why don't you read the label, Ron? You know, how civilized people do, instead of just ripping lids of unknown containers."

Chastised, Ron put the lid back on.

"Err… ' _Alan Pierce, 29, Surrey_ '," he read out Hermione's neat, orderly script.

"Specifically, a portion of his right frontal lobe," she added helpfully.

It took a minute for that to sync in.

"Wait a bloody second, Hermione… are you saying I'm holding a piece of some bloke's brain right now?!"

"Not some bloke's - Alan's! Show some respect!" she said, and, noticing their shocked stares, quickly added, "Oh, don't look at me like that! He was already dead when I took it."

"You took a dead guy's brain?!" and "What the bloody fuck?!" came out simultaneously from both young men. Only Ginny seemed unperturbed, and had started brewing a pot of tea. They were going to need it, she thought.

It took several minutes before Harry and Ron cooled down to the point where they could express coherent thoughts. Hermione just bared the brunt of the storm, knowing full well that they needed to get it out of their system. Once the yelling started to subside with a last ' _What were you even thinking?!_ ' and 'Why always brains?! _!_ ', she raised her hand and calmly said, "Can I explain now?"

"I'd bloody well hope for a good explanation! This is downright ghastly, 'Mione!"

"Ok, Harry, Ron, Gin… let me start from the beginning."

But a sharp tapping sound from the window interrupted her. A shadowy form was fluttering outside, and letting it in revealed a small Boreal owl with a pale, brown-and-white plumage. Hooting eagerly, it flew towards Hermione and perched on her shoulder. It's claws were clutching a piece of parchment.

"Oh," Harry said. "It's Snows."

"You know him?" Hermione couldn't recall ever seeing such an owl.

"Well, not really," Ron explained. "We've just grown used to seeing him. He's been nesting near your place for several months. We saw him outside the Burrow once or twice too, but he never flew in. We called him Snows cause he looks northern."

"And he's never approached us, either," Harry added. "Always kept his distance."

"Look at him!" Ginny exclaimed. Snows was cooing, nuzzling his head into Hermione's neck, making her all tickly. "He obviously knows you! He must have been waiting for you all these months!"

Hermione understood the disparity between the owl's actions and her own recollections instantly. Despite all the work she and Frackenburger had put in, some memories - several weeks' worth, she estimated - were irreparably damaged. She must have befriended this owl during that time, she thought, rubbing Snow's' head gently. The owl seemed to enjoy that immensely and, giving her an affectionate nip, hopped onto the table. He dropped the parchment, which turned out to be wrapped around a long, thin object, with a thump. Hermione, suddenly feeling anxious, reached for it.

Everyone clambered around to see what it was as she unwrapped the parcel.

"That's…"

"It's mine, Harry. Walnut, dragon heartstring, 12¾ inches. It fought me for a little while, but now…"

She took the wand - the very wand Bellatrix had once used to torture her - into her hand, and a series of black, ominous sparks erupted from the end. The wand was content: it was happy to be reunited with its new mistress.

Hermione gasped, feeling a power coursing through her veins. She'd used both Harry's and Ginny's wands sporadically over the past week (Ron's didn't like her, and she reciprocated the feeling), but they always felt a little off. They were too pure. But this wand… it was damaged and dark, just like her. They fit very well together, now that it had learned to obey without question.

"There's something written here," Harry noted, picking up the paper the wand had rolled out of. "But I can't make it out."

Hermione tore her gaze away from her wand and examined the piece of parchment. There was a very faint trace of magic on it, and she recognized it as her own. A charm meant to preserve paper from basic elements like rain and snow. It had worked well: the letter - if you could call it that - was crumpled, but otherwise untouched, just torn a bit around the edges.

On one corner, in a hurried, almost unintelligible scrawl, were written only four words.

"Malfoy No Wand In," she read aloud.

They all looked confused, and Harry finally asked, "Well, what does that mean?"

Hermione felt a headache coming on. Another mystery, another riddle. She shrugged and answered.

"I don't know."

* * *

 **Once again, thank you kindly for all the reviews.**

 **The two paintings hanging in Hermione's kitchen (should you like to look them up) are by William Turner. They are called (fully):**

 **1) The Fighting Temeraire tugged to her last berth to be broken up (1838)**

 **2) Peace - Burial at Sea (1842)**


	13. Hermione's Story

Half an hour later, they were finally able to calm Ron down. He had wanted to march down to Malfoy Manor that instant and demand that the sole resident explain himself. Preferably, in an interrogation room with three prescribed drops of veritaserum down his throat. Hermione found such a course of action to be rash, at best. Solving these mysteries required subtlety, and Ron's proposed approach was the equivalent of a battering ram. Good for knocking down castle gates, but not so much at discovering answers. It took some time and a group effort to convince the redhead of this, however.

A tiny part of her was amused by the heated discussion. Ron's wild gesticulations in defence of his argument reminded her of a windmill caught in a storm. It was only after he almost smacked himself in the nose that he cooled somewhat and listened to reason. No one was going to drag Malfoy out of his own home based on some cryptic message.

When his focus from Malfoy wavered, however, Ron returned to the Hermione-centric issues before him. Like why her living room looked like the den of some insane person, why where there dead people's brains in her freezer, and where had she been all this time. Harry and Ginny just silently arched their brows in her direction at that. They wanted answers too.

Hermione sighed and removed the kettle, which was starting to whistle, from the stove. The girls quickly poured several cups of tea and handed them out. The sounds of clinking china and people blowing on hot water filled the room. Mixing her own sugar into the drink, Hermione felt almost peaceful. Sure, she argued with her friends, but no one could avoid that. And now, sitting at a table together, drinking tea, it was… well, just like family. Which they were, in a way. She'd grown up with them, spent most of her formative years in their presence. She'd fought a war by their side, sharing the very best and the very worst. Those kinds of experiences leave a deep connection, one she was glad to have.

Now that her parents had disappeared in an unknown direction with their memories wiped, this was the only family she had. She suppressed the urge to shed several girlish tears; it wasn't the time. Maybe later.

Taking a sip, she began her story.

"You want to know where I've been and why the room outside looks as it does. Before I begin, I want to warn you that not all the memories are back. Most of them, yes, but some weeks are gone, wiped away by the virus. That was probably its intent in the first place, some sort of self-defence mechanism, so that I would forget about it. What I do remember is sending you a letter and leaving for the continent, then there's a gap before I finally awoke in Russia. Which was the beginning of my muggle life for several months. So I can't say where exactly I was exposed to the spell or who cast it. But I have a pretty good idea. After this, so will you…"

"This story begins probably… oh, about 18 months after Voldemort died. You guys remember how it was right after the war: funeral after funeral, open and closed caskets. Trials that spanned months, as every single captured Death Eater claimed the imperious, or said there were other mitigating circumstances, and they should be let go with a small fine. Us testifying before committees, the ministry using every so-called war hero as PR props, reporters hounding our every step. We coped, we healed, we tried to fix what we could. We tried…

So, it was only a year and a half after that battle in May that I was finally able to leave seeking my parents. Had I been a good daughter, I would have gone immediately after the war. But I always found a reason to put the search off for later. Some trial I had to testify at, some project that urgently needed my assistance. I suppose the real reason I needed those distractions was because I was afraid. Scared that the obliviate on my mum and dad was too strong, that finding them would be much harder than I had anticipated when I cast the damn charm in the first place.

I was working at the ministry by that time and took a leave of absence for several months. You guys wanted to come along and help, and I'm still grateful for that. Maybe I should have accepted the offer, and then everything would have turned out differently. But I didn't. I left in December…

Well, you all remember the next part of this tale. I returned three months later with no parents and little hope. I tried following the fake identities I provided them. I searched social media, I hired private investigators, I accessed government databases and records, public and private. These things are easier to do when you're a witch. Nothing. Not one hint. They were gone, becoming a quickly fading blur in my memory. I grew desperate and lonely and scared even more.

The biggest problem I faced during these months - and this part I concealed when I returned - was that their cases were not special. Almost two years had gone by after Voldemort's death, and muggles were disappearing left and right. You saw the posters hanging in my living room? The 'Have you seen me' ones, the ones offering a reward for information? Families and friends of missing people posted them, desperate for answers. A few of those faces have been found. Most have either turned up dead or not at all.

But missing people were only the tip of the iceberg. Crime in general rose, and a rate that made no sense whatsoever. It was innocent at first. Some more graffiti, petty cases of vandalism. I was able to track all of this later; the stats are all a matter of public record. Two months after Voldemort's death, small crimes in the London area rise. Two years later, and homicide rates triple. It wasn't contained to just London either. Areas all over Great Britain were reporting increases in burglaries, rapes, arsons, even white collar crime! It was like suddenly, in the course of a year, people decided the law didn't matter, that decency was for fools.

So when I tried to search for my parents via social media or some public appeal, my efforts gained no traction. They were just a drop in the ocean, two people among hundreds; so, honestly, no one cared. How can you help some strange girl when your own neighborhood has had three break-ins in the last month? When women are afraid to walk alone at night, and gun sales are at all time high? It was in those months that I realized something was very, very wrong. Something evil was causing this, and I suspected that magic was at the root."

"Wait, Hermione, just wait a sec," Harry interrupted, running a hand through his hair. "Are you sure it was as bad as you say? I mean, how can that even be? If crime had reached that sort of scale, wouldn't have we heard something about it?

Hermione gave him a pitying smile in return.

"When was the last time you read a muggle newspaper?" she asked. "Watched the evening news? Took a stroll into muggle London or even contacted your abhorrent relatives?"

Seeing his hesitation, she pressed on.

"That's right, Harry. Not since the war ended, I bet. And that's the norm. Wizarding communities are so prone to isolation that many of our kind don't even know how muggles dress! So why should we be caught up on current events in the non-magical world? Yes, it was that bad, and no one here had an inkling of knowledge."

Hermione paused, taking a breath and then a sip of her tea. It had cooled somewhat and left a pleasant herbal aftertaste on her tongue. Her friends glanced at each other with worried and confused expressions. Finally, Ron broke the silence.

"But why did you blame magic?" he asked. "Harry and I, we work with criminals all the time, 'Mione, and it's not magic that turns them bad. Some people are just born that way."

"That's a valid point, Ron," Hermione answered, taking another sip of her tea. "There are several reasons. First of all, the overall quantity of new crimes. Homicide rates don't triple in a year for no reason. But that's it - there was no reason! Nothing to justify such behavior. No social unrest, no economic depression, no war - nothing! Life was good, people had jobs, everything was stable. Whatever precipitated this was very well hidden and probably not native to the muggle world.

Secondly, the timing. The rise in aberrant behavior begins the instant Voldemort is gone. He dies in the beginning of May, and by June there's a bump in the crime stats. Coincidence? I think not."

"Um, Hermione?" Ron interrupted again. "I still don't see how this was so obscured. There's a whole department at Magical Law Enforcement that targets muggle-related offenses, so that wizards don't take advantage of people who can't even defend themselves. Rawlings transferred from there a couple years ago, I think. Shouldn't they have been in the loop on this?"

"Yes, they should have, and I'll get to that question in a little bit. I wanted to go to them eventually, but so far everything I had was all circumstantial. So I started to dig. I looked at the people committing these crimes. I reviewed police reports and autopsies. I traveled to where they lived, spoke to neighbors, friends, family. This took me months, but I started to notice a pattern.

It was not obvious at first, because you're absolutely right - even the best people can do evil things for a whole number of different reasons. But a sufficiently large group of them that have no tangible connection with each other? Unlikely. And I found that group. They were the most obvious. The well-to-do, the decent, the kind. The sort of people that have never broken the law, or even seen the insides of a police station! Their behaviors changed dramatically, like something was influencing them all of a sudden.

You asked about the tissue samples in the freezer. You remember the man's you took? Alan Pierce? An excellent example. He was 29 years old, married, had two little children. Earned a six-figure salary working for a marketing firm. Loved his wife, adored his children. Neighbors described him as soft-spoken, intelligent, and kind; they never witnessed any fights between the Pierces, said they were the most agreeable sort. The man spent his free time volunteering for a charity that assists disabled kids. Had the perfect life. Then came home one night, butchered his family in their sleep, and then killed himself.

His case was one of many I investigated. I spoke with his friends, and they mentioned noticing something off about him several months before the tragedy. You see, he had gone to London for business one day, and when he returned something was wrong. It was in his eyes, they said; a tint, like oil on water. His behavior became erratic, said he kept forgetting things. He once complained about hearing voices, seeing things that weren't there.

Does that remind you of something?"

"Voldemort's virus," Ginny whispered. "Like the one inside you."

"Exactly! There were dozens of similar cases, all consistent with a specific profile. People with no violent history committing crimes with no motive. Just… senseless violence. Now, at the time, I was operating under the hypothesis that they had been magically coerced, maybe the imperius, maybe something else. I was hoping to discover a trace of that compulsion, which I then could take to Magical Law Enforcement and have an official investigation opened. With the full force of the ministry behind me, I thought we would apprehend the culprit in no time. So I dug deeper. I researched day and night. I broke into morgues and examined the bodies. Some had already been autopsied, some had not. Those I had to cut open myself. By this time, I had studied enough diagnostic magic to discover the sickness. I found it in their minds, this foul, evil…"

Hermione waved her wand in the air, conjuring a replica of the image from Frackenburger's projector tank. Greasy columns of vile magic spiraled throughout, representing the infected areas.

"Identical to mine. But, you see, muggles are more susceptible to magic than the average witch or wizard, so the symptoms were more severe. It was controlling them, rewriting neural pathways in the brain, lowering empathy, causing hallucinations! I gathered samples from every infected person I found. All of them were dead, so it wasn't difficult. And I brought my assessment, as well as the infected tissue - conclusive proof that dark magic was behind these crimes - to MLE."

"And?"

"And I was fucking flabbergasted. My focus on the muggle world had become so myopic that I forgot all about the wizarding one. Ron, you mentioned earlier there's a department that supposed to serve as a deterrent for wizards seeking to harm helpless muggles? Do you know how many people work in it?"

She didn't wait for them to respond.

"Two! Two people!" she yelled angrily. "One of which is an unpaid intern, and the other is so old he's knee-deep in a casket. They couldn't even understand what I was talking about! They solve maybe 5 crimes in a year! And you know how the ministry officially records it?! They conclude that amount as the _total_ number of crimes against muggles! 5 solved out of 5! Amazing! But - I'm getting carried away. That place was a waste of my time.

So I went over their heads, straight to Grimsfort, MLE's current director. He didn't want to hear anything about this. Said they had their hands full with all the current investigations. That funding was tight as it was. That, fine, he'd look into it, but I shouldn't create a fuss. That's what he called it. Hundreds of victims already and I was making a fuss, upending his stats for the year. Fucking bastard."

Hermione, infuriated by her own speech, made a disgusted sound. Her spoon clinked against the teacup with a vehemence, and she dropped it, balling her hand into a fist.

"Merlin, Hermione," Harry murmured, shocked. "But why you didn't tell us any of this?"

"I should have," the frizzy-haired witch admitted. "I should have told you everything, but it was just a suspicion at first, and you… you and Ginny were getting married, getting your lives back together. Everyone was so happy for once-and, and, oh, you deserved it! Especially you, Harry! You had a piece of that monster stuck inside of you for years, and things were finally looking up! I didn't want to be the girl who ruined everything! The girl who saw monsters everywhere she looked, and brought back a conflict nobody wanted to hear about! Nobody!"

Her voice rose steadily, breaking by the end, and she had to choke back a sudden sob. They all reacted, Harry first of all. He was by her side in an instant, rubbing soothing circles into her back.

"You can share anything with us, you know that. You don't have to carry all this darkness by yourself. We're always here to shoulder whatever burden, no matter how heavy. Right, guys?"

"That's right," Ron said, and Ginny nodded, handing her friend a napkin. Even Snows, perched on the back of her chair with closed eyes, hooted in support.

"Thanks," Hermione said gratefully and dabbed her eyes. Her voice was a little raw when she spoke again. "I was so lonely all that time. I didn't know if I was truly onto something, or if I had begun seeing things. And then I found all that darkness. Innocent lives ruined by a spell they had no chance of resisting. Adults, children - it didn't matter. They all hurt. And so did I-"

"Hey, hey." Ginny rushed over, enveloping her friend in a tight hug. "It's alright, we're all here now."

Hermione sniffed, unable to prevent several tears from escaping. They say sharing your pain is one of the key steps of healing. Maybe that's right. Her soul still ached, but the warmth and understanding of her friends was like the spring sun, slowly thawing cold winter ice under its glowing rays.

"I'm ok now. I'm ok." She tried to put all of her gratitude into those simple words, and they all understood.

"So," she continued, after clearing her throat. "Grimsfort actually said something very interesting during the time he was trying to get me out of his office as quickly as possible. I don't know if it was an accident, but he wasn't lying when he claimed funding for MLE was low. Those boxes over there," she pointed her hand in the direction of her living room, "contain parchment documenting the ministry's fiscal policies since Voldemort's demise. Analyzing them is tedious business, and I was only able to go through a fraction, but I did find that several months after the Battle of Hogwarts, austerity measures were implemented throughout several key areas of the ministry. Funding to law enforcement was among them, and guess what department's funding was cut the most?"

"The magic on muggle crime unit," Harry offered, a sick look crossing his face.

"Precisely. They cut 90% of personnel from the only part of our world that safeguards muggles at the exact time when they needed it the most. That is no coincidence. Someone with a lot of influence within the ministry did this. Someone who wanted to keep it quiet."

"That's a very grave allegation."

"But it fits, doesn't it? Many Death Eater's are still at large, hiding out, biding their time. We don't know how deep this rabbit-hole goes, or who's responsible. What I do know is that we can't trust anyone. After I had gone to Grimsfort, someone tried to place a trace on my wand. At times, I thought I was being followed."

"Is that how you got infected?"

"No. Remember, the virus, in its current stage, isn't even fully active. Its capabilities are locked, and it can't spread from secondary vectors. Only from the original host."

"So that means…"

"That I found it. Him or her, I don't know. I tracked them down and got infected. That's the only logical explanation. But whatever it was, it couldn't kill me, just infected me with the purpose of removing my memory. I think I hurt it… I don't know. This is what I can't remember. This is what we have to find out! Don't you see - this virus is currently acting at a fraction of its potential, and it's already hurt hundreds! If it unlocks itself, we would have chaos! It would cause bloodshed on an unimaginable scale!"

She breathed deeply, trying to calm her galloping heart. Every single day could be their last, and millions of people didn't even know it. They had to find the source of the infection - if she had done it once, she could do it again - and eliminate it. Burn in off the planet for good.

"That's what we have to do," she concluded more softly. "You three must stay here and find the culprit in the ministry. The one who's covering up the danger. The one who cut the funding. Follow the money. I will hunt down the host, and then we'll all kill him."

There were several moments of silence after this abrupt change in the conversation. They didn't last.

"That is fucking stupidest plan I've ever heard!" Ron exploded. "You just admitted you almost died searching for this person, and you want to do it again?! And you plan on doing this alone?! Have you gone completely mental?!"

"No, I won't be alone," she countered innocently.

"What? We're the only ones who know that you're even back, and you want us to stay here! Or are you planning on taking that crazy doctor on this idiotic hunt of yours?! Oh, that'll be grand, he'll babble about brains while you're dodging spells and hexes and unknown magical viruses made by fucking Voldemort! Fan-fucking-tastic!"

She hummed. Ron wouldn't like this next part. Neither would Harry. But she had a plan.

"That's not entirely true, Ron," she said.

"What's not entirely true?!"

"Well, you and Frackenburger aren't the only ones who know I'm here. There is… one more."

Ron gaped at her like a fish out of water. His mind quickly put two and a two together and came to the result that his once brilliant friend had gone insane. Completely fucking bonkers. When he started yelling a second later, his face actually managed to turn into a brilliant shade of purple.

Purple.

In the end, Hermione got her way.

* * *

 **One guest reviewer had the decency to point out to me that April comes before May, not after. Awkward. Thank you. I am ashamed.**

 **That's why I love reviews though. They can really help me improve the story, even in such obvious things. I'm going to go stare at a calendar now.**


	14. Speaking to Ghosts

**Man, this chapter gave me trouble. I kept trying to write it from Hermione's perspective, and that did not fly. At all. It was also intended to be much longer, but I decided to split it in two, as the second part's fighting me on all fronts as well. I'll post it soon, on the weekend, I think.**

 **Anyway, some of you have been missing Draco. Here he is! I hope you like!**

* * *

When Draco was 6 years old, Lucius took him to his first quidditch match: England vs. France. The boy had been ecstatic, sporting the quintessential symbol of a carefree childhood - a wide, toothy grin. He had been so excited, in fact, that on the way to the parlour, where his father was waiting to apparate him to the stadium, Draco hadn't noticed one of his toy brooms lying on the ground. He tripped and scraped his knee. His mother and half the elvish help ran circles around him, bandaging the scratch and casting every single healing spell known to the wizarding world. Narcissa, rather protective of her only child, refused to let him go until it was certain that the bleeding had stopped and her precious offspring wouldn't collapse in the middle of the match. In the end, they were 15 minutes late to the game.

That didn't matter, because the game was delayed. 17,000 spectators waited until Draco Malfoy's mother confirmed that her son was okay. That was the power of their pureblood name.

Now, 14 years later, Lucius was dead, and a tired and grumpy Draco Malfoy was returning to his disgraced home after working a full 8-hour shift at minimum wage alongside dirty, filthy muggles. The job was part of his probation and was subject to intense scrutiny from Dorothy Peps - the petty, bureaucratic caseworker assigned to keep tabs on him. Miss one day on the job, and Madame Peps, like the good little office drone she was, would report the infraction to her supervisor. Three of those, as she was so eager to remind her ward at their weekly meetings, and his agreement with the ministry would be revoked.

"And zen iz Azkaban for you!" she would buzz, repeatedly poking him with her finger.

By the Founders, how he hated that woman. But what could he do?

On top of that, even the most basic sources of transportation (like floo and apparition) were denied to him. That meant he was forced to suffer several additional hours of proximity to disgusting muggle hordes during his daily commute. The only good thing to come out of that was meeting Granger. Stumbling into her provided at least some variety to his brutally monotonous days.

Otherwise, he rose with the sun, went to his job, and then came home late in the day, exhausted.

Just like today, he thought, feeling the oncoming pounding stomp of a headache. Even the flight to the Manor, usually somewhat refreshing, had been tedious. Groaning, he tried not to think about tomorrow, because it would be same routine all over again.

He touched down on his family's - pretty much solely his now - grounds, instantly aware of a guest's presence. Linny appeared by his side that very second. Her wide eyes were filled with tears, and a lump was growing on her forehead - the result of administered self-punishment.

"Master!" she wailed, frantically waving her arms around. "Master! Oh, Linny sorry! Linny bad, bad, terrible elf! Shame on Linny!

She fell to her knees with a sob, and started thumping her head against the ground. While this was the exact sort of behavior expected from a house-elf in a pureblood household, Draco found it rather frustrating at times.

"Linny," he barked. "Just say what happened!"

"The miss! She comes, and Linny let's her in! Then pretty miss ask to see room! That room! Linny shows her the way, but then she locks door with magic and now doesn't come out! I is sorry, Master! I-"

"Stop babbling… _and hitting your head! THIS IS AN ORDER, LINNY! SILENCE!"_

Linny gulped, drying tears with the trembling palm of her hand. Obediently, she stifled her last whimpers and fell silent.

"Now," the blond wizard snapped. "Explain this nonsense. What miss and what bloody room. SPEAK!"

"The miss," Linny whispered. "Miss Hermione. In room. She hasn't come out."

"What room?!"

"Where she… where Master's aunt Bellatrix cast the dark curses, where she…"

Throwing away his broom, Draco took off at a run, cursing the crazy witch that had popped up again in his life. Walking into her own torture chamber - what in Hades was she thinking?! Draco could only imagine the state of mind she was in. The fear, the pain. Echoes of Bella's crucios swarming in. He could remember every second of that day, and he hadn't even been the one writhing in pain on the floor. This would come back to bite him in the arse. Potter and Weasley would blame him this time for anything that happened to their precious brainy girl. Damn Granger. She would-

No magic could lock him out of his own home, and the doors, sensing his anxiety, rocketed open at his approach. He sprinted through them, expecting to see a quivering, crying mess heaped on the floor. A girl destroyed by her past. He was prepared to scold and pity and yell. Then he would have to call her guardians, and, boy, would that conversation-

"Rushing to my rescue, Malfoy?"

A cool and collected voice stopped him in his tracks. She stood in the center of the room, turning to face him with an almost amused expression.

"What the hell, Granger," he panted, annoyed and frustrated that he ran here for nothing. Damn this crazy Gryffindor.

"Harry and Ron would have done the same," she mused. "Everyone wants to protect me from my own past. You're more like them than you know."

He didn't enjoy being the object of barmy insinuations.

"I didn't do anything for you. Do your friends even know you're here?"

"Ah. Covering your own ass. Even then, the end result's the same. Everyone thinks I'm a fragile flower about to wither and die. Come here."

She made a beckoning gesture with her hand. Draco, angry and curious at the same time, obliged.

"You've redecorated," Granger observed, twirling an oddly familiar wand between her fingers. "The furniture's new, the walls are a different color. It doesn't matter though. It's still the same room."

He didn't really know what to answer to that. He had no idea where Granger was going with this or what she wanted. Did she come here for an apology? She'd had years for that.

"You know, this is the exact spot where she was standing."

 _She._ There could be only one person Granger was talking about - Bellatrix. His breath hitched. It wasn't because of what she said, but the way she said it. Almost bored, as if she was talking about the weather. Most people don't adopt that sort of tone when discussing the subject of their own torture. He examined her closely then. Granger raised an impassive facade, but beneath that… _she looked pleased._ Giddy, even. But it was her eyes that really shocked him.

The change in the girl he'd found on the train two weeks ago was astounding. She had been lost then, tired and lonely, but with no heaviness in her heart or darkness in her gaze. Now her eyes expressed a haunted depth that comes from seeing too much. He'd witnessed the same look in the eyes of both victims and villains during the war. It was the abyss gazing back.

"She was standing right in this very spot," the girl continued, pointing down at her feet, unaware of his thoughts. "Spewing taunts and curses, ripping into my arm. She enjoyed it too - you could hear it in her voice. She liked causing pain."

"Look, Hermione…" he began cautiously, but was cut off.

" _Well, who's standing here now, bitch?!"_

Fury, sudden as thunder in a clear summer sky, flashed over Granger's face. Her lips twisted into a feral snarl and her hair crackled with streams of uncontrolled magic. There was rigidness to her posture now, an unyielding defiance that reminded him an antique sculpture of some wrathful goddess.

The wand, he realized - it was Bellatrix's! Did it obey a new master?!

"Now I'm here, and you have worms digging through your skull in whatever shallow grave they threw you in. I have a life, I have your wand, and I stand here now! ME! NOT YOU!"

Her cry, followed by quick, ragged breaths, reverberated through the room. Chest heaving, the young woman stared into her past, at an adversary only she could see. Slowly, a terrible and euphoric smile spread over her face.

"You'll be forgotten," she spat. "A footnote in the textbooks of history that no one will bother with. I'll destroy everything you stood for. Your blood purity, your prejudice, your hatred. And when people in the future read about this time period, they will read about _me_ , and not some insane witch that served an equally mad lord."

Granger closed her eyes, tension seeping out of her body. Her breaths evened out to a steady rhythm.

"You're dead, Bellatrix," she whispered. "Dead and gone. And Iwill make the rules on who's welcome to this world, and who's not."

Draco looked at his guest, horror mixing with admiration. A fragile flower, she was not. This girl reveled in her victory and the death of her enemy. Is this what she came here for then? To confront the ghost of her torturer? To stare the demons of her past in the eye and spit in their faces?

Granger opened her eyes and placed the wand in her hand back into her robes. Her magic drained away with her fury, leaving behind only a frizzy mess of hair on her head, which she tried to wrestle back into shape with an almost defeated exasperation.

"Damn it," she sighed, annoyed. Then her facade - poised and calm - snapped back into place, and not a single hint of her outburst remained. She seemed in total control again, and Draco wondered how many people had the opportunity to see the real girl underneath.

"Are you… ok?" he asked hesitantly.

Her smile was dazzling. He might as well have asked her to the beach on a bright, sunny day, so cheerful it was.

"Better than ever!" she chirped. "I feel good now, and the world's a little lighter."

His skepticism must have shown, because she raised her hand and explained.

"This was… like a stone I was carrying. The anger, the hurt. It was all inside me, but now it's gone. Well, not completely, but enough to matter. There is one less burden on my shoulders now, and it's thanks to you. I would have never contemplated coming here before you flew me in on your broom."

"It was nothing."

"It was decent, and that's more than what most people do. Now, this is silly, but I baked you a cake as a thank you. You have to try it, because as self-serving as this sounds, it is delicious! Come on now, come!"

Having said that, she whirled away in a hurricane of energy, smelling of aster and foxberries. Swept up by these tempestuous winds of change, he had no choice but to follow.


	15. The Offer You Can't Refuse

**cnf, the cake is for you!**

* * *

"It is good," he admitted, taking another bite of a chocolate haupia cake. Granger clicked her tongue in a display of annoyance.

"Well don't be so surprised!" she said, bristling. "Baking is chemistry, chemistry is just potions, and I was top of my class in potions."

"No, you weren't."

" _Yes. I was."_ Her pouty moue was transforming into a rather dangerous expression.

He paid it no heed and countered in a haughty voice, "All marks were public, Granger. In potions, mine exceeded yours most years."

"By a fraction of a percent and only because of blatant favoritism from that slimy git of a professor!" she snapped, eyes narrowing. "That doesn't count! _Therefore,_ I had top marks in that class, as well as all others."

He just grinned at her, mouth full. Her feathers were so easy to ruffle. He took another bite, idly gazing at the guest sitting across from him. She was dressed in a pair of slacks and a cream blouse underneath a set of robes, her bushy hair now restrained back into a ponytail. Resting comfortably in a plush armchair, underneath which she had placed her purse, she looked surprisingly at home in this sitting room. It was one of several dispersed throughout the Manor's vast area; small, cozy, and bathed in a warm light from a lit fireplace, it offered an intimate setting.

Granger, holding a plate in one hand, speared a piece of cake with a fork and popped it into her mouth, apparently satisfied with getting the last word. She fell silent, and he mused at what his father would say seeing a muggleborn in such a position, her very presence defiling the pureblood family estate. He would probably have had a stroke, but Draco didn't care anymore. The events of the last half-decade made him realize that Granger's heritage wasn't that important; after all, she wasn't a muggle - she was a witch! Damn good one too, but he'd never voice that opinion aloud. He still had his pride.

"He was a brave man, though," she added with sudden somberness, bringing Draco back to the present. "Brilliant potions master and a dedicated lecturer. Hated pretty much the whole world. But so very, very brave."

Her words struck a chord in his heart; after all, Snape had been the source of his salvation as well. It was difficult to fathom that the man who taught them both for years had concealed such a remarkable side to his identity. Not just from his students and colleagues, no - from Voldemort himself. He had deceived a master of legilimency and the dark arts; a man that would kill and torture without a grain of remorse. And all for what? To honor the memory of a girl that grew to love someone else. It was sheer chance that his true story was now known.

Life is funny that way. Sometimes, we know the least about the people closest to us, and when they're gone, we're left picking up shards of memories in a shocked daze. Draco had never properly mourned the loss of his professor; he had been busy with his own trial, and then the hardships of life under the new ministry.

He wondered if anyone grieved for the former Head of Slytherin House. The man had no family that he could recall of and no real friends. To be friends with Snape - now that was a thought.

Draco rose and walked over to a liquor cabinet, shooting a questioning look towards his guest. At her acquiescing nod, he poured two shots of a clear liquid and brought them back.

"To Snape," he said, offering her a glass.

"To Snape," she echoed.

The vodka was top shelf and went down smoothly. Still, Granger was obviously not as adjusted to hard liquor as he was; she coughed, waving a hand in front of her face. He chuckled suddenly.

"Oh, shut it, I stick to wine, usually," she admitted, a slight rosy blush coloring her cheeks.

"No, it's not that. I was remembering… He had his moments, you know? Like in fourth year, when you got hit by that hex, and your teeth expanded to the size of a beaver's." Draco was grinning ear-to-ear now, unable to conceal his mirth. "Then he looked at you with that icy gaze of his, said, 'I see no difference,' and you scampered away, bawling your eyes out."

She just stared at him, aghast that he would bring up that particular memory, then yelled accusingly, "You shot the curse that did that to me, you git!"

"Technically, I shot it at Potter, and it ricocheted into you."

"That doesn't make it any better!"

"It did make it hilarious, though," he countered, his eyes glittering with laughter.

She huffed and glared, drawing herself up to an indignant pose.

"Well, I had Madame Pomfrey reduce them to a much better size, anyway," she informed him victoriously. "So you actually did me a favor."

He snorted and said, "Well, if that's what you count for a favor, Granger, ask away any time. I'll be happy to oblige."

"Careful, Malfoy, you just might get what you're wishing for."

He raised his brows, but she waved his silent question away and looked out the window. There, the sun had just dipped below the horizon, and several pale stars, like lonely beacons in a stormy sea, flickered in a rapidly darkening sky. It was getting colder every day; soon, winter would reign supreme over these lands, locking them in its snowy embrace.

"I've noticed the investigation into your disappearance is still ongoing," Draco said, breaking the momentary silence.

Without turning her gaze from the window, she nodded.

"You do know that the ministry has been using it as an excuse for more aggressive action against many pureblood families?" he continued hotly. "That there has been a staggering increase in unprovoked asset seizures, inspections, sanctions and fines?"

"Some people deserve it," she murmured cooly, not breaking her gaze away.

"But many don't! I thought justice was your passion; freeing the oppressed, fighting for the innocent and all that crap? But you don't really care, do you? I heard what you were screaming at some memory of Bellatrix just half an hour ago! There's a darkness in your soul, Granger, admit it."

She pursed her lips, but didn't say anything.

"Do your friends know this?" he pushed on. "About who you really are? How you've changed from that goody Gryffindor taking on house-elf rights with your silly spew? How you don't give a shit about anyone-"

"I do give a shit, Malfoy!" she yelled. "I know what the ministry is doing, and, you're right, much of it isn't just! Half the officials are crooks, profiteering from their positions of sudden power. Most of them didn't even fight in the war; they just sat behind locked doors, quivering from fear! But now that Voldemort's gone, oh, _now_ they're brave! _Now_ they can stand up for the rights of muggleborns - for _my_ rights - and punish all the bad, prejudiced purebloods, getting their slice of pie in the process. I bet you only a quarter of those fines goes into ministry coffers; the rest is just stolen."

"Well, you could put a stop that!"

"No! I can't! Not right now, anyway," she answered fiercely, reaching for her purse and clutching the straps so hard that her knuckles turned white.

"You haven't figured it out, have you?" he guessed. "Why you ended up obliviated? You think it's someone here, someone in the ministry maybe."

She tensed a little, giving him an appraising glance, then looked away, biting her lip. Slowly, her arm crept into the purse and withdrew a small glass bottle filled with a clear liquid. She cautiously placed it on the table in front of her and pushed it in his direction.

Draco inhaled sharply. He had a very strong suspicion of what type of potion swirled within.

"So, then," he sneered, "this wasn't just a social call, was it. All that bullshit about a thank you, that little spectacle upstairs-"

"Was real, Malfoy. Spur of the moment, but real. And I am grateful."

"Then what the hell is this?!"

"You asked some questions. This is your opportunity to get the answers."

"By drugging myself?!" he yelled, rising to his feet. "I've lost my wand, not my brains!"

"Sit down, Draco! Yes, it is veritaserum, and, no, I won't force you to take it! But it is in your best interest to do so! You're part of a much larger play right now, and you don't even know it," she retorted quickly. "Harry, Ron and I have a proposition for you. Please, listen to me."

Grinding his teeth together, Draco stared at the witch. That she had the audacity to suggest veritaserum to him - in his own home, no less! - was infuriating.

"Why the hell would I agree to any propositions you and your crazy troupe have for me?"

Granger sighed heavily and reached into her purse again. This time, she plopped a heavy manila folder onto the dark wood of the coffee table.

"Your case file," she stated, "from the ministry. It was an enlightening read."

He stared at the papers strewn out over the tabletop, while conflicting emotions of curiosity and wrath warred within the confines of his mind. Slowly, the latter waned, and he sat back down, crossing one leg over the other.

"Speak," he ordered.

She pierced him with an icy glare, angered by the commanding tone, but then cleared her throat and bluntly said, "You're not happy, Malfoy, and we can change that."

"How?"

"As I've said, I studied your file. As part of your probation, you were forced to an assigned employment position in the muggle world. The theory was that working close to muggles would help you develop an understanding of them and become more tolerant. Has that worked?"

"I hate them all," he snarled. "Dirty, vapid, consumeristic creatures that have no respect for authority or their betters."

Granger, obviously expecting a negative reply, was still taken aback by his vehemence.

"Well, we will leave that conversation for later," she muttered under her breath and then, louder, "I can't say I'm too surprised though. Harry spoke to your caseworker - one Dorothy Peps - in order to obtain your file. Described her as the pettiest, nastiest witch he'd encountered after the war, and that's saying something. You have to deal with her every single week. Has it been pleasant?"

His eye twitched. Even the mention of that foul woman was a danger to his health. Granger, pleased with his reaction, continued.

"She was also put in charge of your employment situation; to put it bluntly, she tells you where to work, and you have no choice in the matter. When I explained to Ron what McDonald's was, he almost pissed himself laughing. Imagine that: the pureblood scion, heir to all this opulence," she waved her arm to indicate their lavish surroundings, "has to work 8-hour shifts, 7 days a week, serving greasy fast food to muggles. I have to admit, even I would have been driven crazy-"

"Alright, cut the shit, Granger!" Draco exploded. "I know my life sucks, what are you offering?"

"You submit to my questioning under veritaserum to ascertain your innocence, you assist in apprehending the criminals that caused my troubles, and, in return, we get you a full pardon. No more trips to muggle London, no more 'vapid, consumeristic muggles' in your life, and, most importantly, we get you your wand back."

His eyes widened at that last part, and Granger smirked, which made her look devious, a term he had never associated with the bushy-haired know-it-all.

"That's right," she said. "The ministry confiscated your wand shortly after the last battle, so you haven't been able to do any magic for what - almost four years now? Not having access to something you've grown up all your life with, something that is the cornerstone of your identity - that must be some itch you're carrying."

He licked his lips, shivers racing down his spine. The very thought of having a wand back in his possession, of being able to cast spells again like any normal wizard, was driving him crazy already.

"What would my assistance entail?" he asked cautiously, forcing his voice to sound steady.

"You travel with me, following my orders. Then, we catch the bastard responsible and Avada him. Quick and easy."

"Just like that?" he asked, raising his brows in surprise. "No trial? No Azkaban?"

Granger just shrugged, tapping her fingernails against the table. The sound that came out was oddly reptilian and sinister. She didn't answer anything; obviously, she wasn't going to elaborate without questioning him first. He spent the next minute mulling over what she'd told him and then frowned.

"I don't understand why you need me, Granger," he said. "You have Potter and Weasley. Have them open an investigation; after all, you have the force of the entire ministry behind you."

"The second we do that, we scare those involved into hiding," she countered, shaking her head. "For the same reason, Harry and Ron haven't informed anyone of my return, which technically makes them guilty of obstructing their own investigation. No, this is off the books, where they won't see us coming. Which is why I can't take either of them with me-"

"Because their sudden absence from the auror department would be suspicious," he followed up.

"Right."

"Still, why me?"

"I need a partner, and the amount of people that know I'm back is extremely limited. You're one of five, and, without you, I would still be stuck in muggleland. Also, you're already involved."

"By finding you on that train?"

"No. Well, yes, that too, but…" Dipping her hand into her purse, she pulled out another piece of parchment. From the looks of it, it had once been crumpled and then smoothed out. She passed it to him.

"Malfoy No Wand In," he read aloud slowly, having trouble making out the words. "Merlin, what atrocious penmanship. Who wrote this?"

"I did," Granger responded somewhat defensively. "That is my handwriting when I'm in a terrible rush. I don't remember when I wrote this, but I must have barely had the time to scribble down those four words and then send the letter to myself. This is important, it involves you, and we don't know why."

"So, you also want me along in order to keep an eye on me," he deduced.

"There is that too." There wasn't a shred of guilt in her voice at that admission.

"These words mean nothing to me," he scoffed, shifting in his seat.

"And I'd prefer to hear that under veritaserum."

He hesitated, folding his hands into a pyramid. Could he do this? Follow Granger to fight some dark wizard? He'd be stuck with her for months, possibly.

"You'll have your wand back," she sang.

That was true, and, oh, how he ached to hold it in his grip. But what she was proposing - it could be dangerous.

"No more muggles," her voice had a sudden dreamy, hypnotic quality. "No more burgers, french fries, and fat, self-absorbed customers…"

By Juno, how he hated them. Self-righteous aresholes, the lot of them, and you couldn't tell anyone to sod off, because, apparently, the customer was always right. Who came up with that lunacy?! More proof that muggles were the inferior species.

"...and no more Dorothy Peps!"

That sealed the deal.

"Alright," he growled, slamming his palms on the table. "Give me your fucking truth-drug!"

She looked entirely too pleased with herself.


	16. C A M B R I D G E

**This is another chapter with a dark part. It contains torture and death.**

* * *

The next day, Harry and Ron, followed by Draco, emerged out of the pensieve on the second floor of Grimmauld Place. The two aurors had insisted on watching his interrogation scene before allowing him to go anywhere with their precious girl.

Now, they were appeased: under a thousand direct and indirect questions aimed at rooting out any inconsistency, Malfoy had remained stoic and clear. He had no involvement with Hermione's disappearance; he had no idea what the words on the parchment meant; he had no contact with any dark wizards whatsoever; he hadn't held a wand - or anyone else's, for that matter (that sounded dirty, he had informed her when she asked, and she rolled her eyes) - in years; he hadn't cast any spells in the same amount of time; he was part of no dark conspiracy; he would not hurt Granger, he owed her for keeping him out of Azkaban after the war; etc, etc, etc.

This third interrogation (counting the one by the ministry, then the one by Potter), had provided her friends with a miniscule grain of trust. Just enough to let him stand by her side.

Exiting the swirling fluid into the backs of his school adversaries, Draco frowned. He had no idea how she did it, but Granger had removed a piece of her memories. He remembered that moment very well, due to its odd nature…

 _He was still in there, but no power of will could prevent the answers rolling off his tongue. His pupils were fully dilated; he was under full control of the truth serum. Granger sat across from him, asking question after question, making a series of notes in a small notebook._

 _She paused suddenly, biting her lip. For a split second, uncertainty peeked through her features, but then her determined eyes met his glassy ones and she asked, "Do you know of any Death Eater that has a scar in the shape of a crescent moon on the back of his right hand?"_

 _"_ _No," he answered immediately. He was surprised; she had promised to keep her questions limited to the scope of this investigation. This seemed… personal?_

 _She just nodded, looking away. He noticed the lip she had been biting was as red as coral. After a moment, the usual questions returned, and he answered them all as honestly as he could._

"Earth to Malfoy!" The ginger Potter nee Weasley clapped her hands in front of his nose. "Come on, we'll bring you up to speed!"

He followed her into the kitchen, meeting Granger's warning glare along the way. Interpreting it wasn't difficult: he was to keep silent about the disparity between what she had shown her friends in the pensieve, and what was in his memories. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut and moved along, storing this little tidbit of information for later.

He spent the next several hours sipping at tea with biscuits, listening to a tale about corruption, black magic, and some crazy neurosurgeon that sounded like he'd added too much mushroom extract to his stew.

"We think it's just one person infecting everyone," Granger concluded. Seeing his confused look, she elaborated.

"If you look at muggle crime statistics, you see crimes rising first in the London area. Then, they fall a bit in London and rise in Paris. Then Venice. Rome. Vienna. Bucharest. Those are all—"

"Major floo hubs," Potter picked up. "Like one person is traveling from place to place, and the infection follows wherever they go. This journey leads us to St. Petersburg, then Moscow, and the trail finally goes cold somewhere in the Ural Mountains. It's hard to find any further information: the towns in that area are small and rural, and most don't publish crime records online. The crimes have continued to rise throughout Britain, however, while returning to their normal levels in continental European countries, so we think he's back here again."

"Do you have any suspects?"

"Only a list of missing Death Eaters," Granger said, handing him a parchment with a number of names. "All those who ran after the last battle and were never caught."

Draco skimmed the list, picking out familiar names; people he had dined with, who had visited his home on numerous occasions.

"Greyback, Rockwood, Yaxley…" he murmured, then returned to one name that caught his eyes in the beginning.

"Antonin Dolohov," he said.

"What about him?" Granger frowned.

"He has family in Russia; in fact, if I'm not mistaken, his family estate is somewhere in the Ural Mountains."

"That can't be right," Potter countered, recalling the Death Eater's file. "He grew up near Yorkshire; his parents are from England as well."

Draco rolled his eyes.

"His great-grandfather was the youngest in a family of five and emigrated here over a century ago. The main Dolohov branch is still is there."

"How in Merlin's name would you know that?" Weasley asked incredulously.

"I can list the lineages, family history and coat of arms for the majority of influential pureblood families in Europe," Draco sneered. "You see, Weasley, that's what's taught in proper pureblood families."

"Well that sounds like a load of shite, and I'm happy mum and dad never spoke of that us," Ginny snorted.

"Well, if that's true, it's a possible lead," Granger thoughtfully tapped a finger against her lip. "Dolohov, hmm… Ok, we'll leave in a couple of days, Malfoy; Harry and Ron will begin sifting through financial accounts and investigating ministry employees who stand to benefit from all of this. Also—"

The tea grew cold as they planned and argued, making plans for the immediate future. It was dawn by the time Granger side-alonged him back to his own home.

"Thanks for not saying anything to them."

"Everyone has secrets," Draco replied with a shrug.

She nodded and said goodbye before apparating away with a pop. He looked at the spot she had just been at, a faint scent of aster and foxberries lingering in the air. His arm was still warm from her touch.

Sighing, he turned away and headed up to the Manor. Tomorrow, for the first time in years, he wouldn't have to rise early as hell to go to that fucking job. His boss could suck it; the stupid, fat muggles could suck it too, and he hoped the whole place burned down. His mood lifted by images of a burning building with a large, cheery, yellow 'M' crumbling into dust, he started to whistle, skipping the rest of the way. This deal with Granger was already paying off…

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

 **...Somewhere in England…**

 _Like angry, burnt coals, the Dark Lord's eyes shimmered from the depth of the room's shadows. A displeased sneer crossed his bloodless face, and Dolohov fell to his knees._

 _"My Lord," he rasped, "I beg of you-"_

"SILENCE!" _Voldemort's voice tore through the room, a whirlwind of impending pain. "You have failed me, Dolohov. At the moment that could have brought you great favor, you managed to think with your cock instead of your brain. You will require the use of neither now."_

 _"Please-" the man on the ground whimpered and then felt a chill in his bones as something slithered past his prostrated body._

 _"Nagini…" What passed for a smile emerged on the pale, bloodless face of his master. The snake hissed in response and curled her body around Voldemort's ankles, raising her head to rest in his lap._

 _"Nagini," Voldemort repeated, lowering a hand to pet his familiar. A shiver of pleasure shook through the snake, her tongue flickering out with caressing kisses. "You are in luck - she is not hungry."_

 _Dolohov exhaled, his shoulders slumping from relief._

 _"That," the Dark Lord continued, raising his wand, "will only make your punishment worse. You will become something of an experiment for me, Antonin. You and one other. RISE!"_

 _Stumbling obediently to his feet, Dolohov stared with trembling lips at the end of a pointed wand._

 _"It will awaken in only very specific conditions; a gift from me to the world." Voldemort said cryptically and then hissed out a string of incomprehensible syllables._

 _The Death Eater saw a vivid purple light, and then a searing pain ripped through his form, blood boiling in his veins. With a hoarse scream that he could not recognize, for so foreign it sounded, he collapsed in a fit of seizures onto the cold, marble floor. His eyes were wide open, but they could not see; a black, oily abyss surrounded him, pouring into his ears and eyes and mouth._

 _The last thing he heard before falling into a state of blissful unconsciousness, was the Dark Lord's cruel laughter, colder and drier than the wind that circles the peaks of the Himalayas..._

Gasping, Dolohov shot up, wiping beads of icy sweat from his forehead. It took several moments to calm his hammering heart, remembering that it was just a dream, as the echo of Voldemort's laugh slowly drained away, leaving him alone in the darkness of this muggle room. _The Other_ in his mind woke with him and started pacing impatiently, demanding his needs be met.

With a groan, the man heaved himself off the bed, his naked form pale in wan morning light. Scars and pockmarks dotted his body; a bandage covered his right shoulder. Some red had seeped through, and Dolohov surveyed it with distaste before walking to the bathroom and peeling it away in front of a mirror. The skin underneath was raw and bloodied, the veins greenish-black from a poison that he could not eradicate, only contain. A smell of rotting flesh rose from the wound.

"Mudblood bitch," he spat through clenched teeth, remembering the witch that had hexed him months ago.

He had no idea how she tracked him down, or how she had even figured out their plans. All he knew was that she had found him one night, and then they were dueling, flinging hexes and curses at one another. She had been vicious, spells flying off her wand like bullets from a muggle gun, forcing him to dodge and weave. A small owl accompanied her, attacking him from above, aiming for his eyes with its sharp claws.

A veteran of several conflicts, he had stood his own for a time, fighting back with magic designed to maim and kill. He had been confident in his ability to put this girl and her animal down, and that cockiness had cost him dearly. The fight dragged on; slowly, he began to retreat under their united assault. His breaths came out in short and ragged pants, and a weary fatigue settled in, weighing down his movements. Her could see she was sweaty and tired too, but her spells maintained their precision, while his started to go wide or shatter against her defenses, causing no harm. An unfamiliar feeling settled in his gut; after several moments he recognized it as desperation.

He couldn't even apparate away now: all of his attention was focused on deflecting or dodging her spells.

Then, it happened. The owl swooped in a flutter of feathers, pecking at his outstretched arm. It didn't hurt much, but it was enough of a distraction for his exhausted body. The witch's voice peaked in a murderous crescendo, and a particularly nasty bit of dark magic sliced into his shoulder, throwing him back into a wall. With an agonized grunt, he fell to the ground, feeling his wand fly out of his grip. It clattered just out of reach.

This is the end, he thought, as she advanced towards his disarmed form. A dullness spread through his chest, blood from his wound coating the outside of his robes. It was getting hard to breath, his chest feeling like a ton of bricks. Grating, gurgling sounds came from his throat, as a trail of spit crept down his chin. It pooled on the bottom, growing fat and pregnant, and then fell to the floor with a sick plop. It was as red as the fields of poppies near his family's home.

The edges of his vision were dimming, darkness inching in. She was close now, a towering shadow, pressing her wand into his neck.

"For all the people you've hurt," she snarled, her voice as wild as a wolf's. " _AVADA-"_

 _The Other_ took over, grasping control of his body. It had never happened before, not this directly, anyway. He felt like a puppet on stretched strings, jerkily following the orders of its master.

His hand rose as quick as a viper, batting the wand away before the witch could complete her deadly incantation. She tried to jump back, her eyes going wide with surprise, but _The Other_ was too quick. It grasped her hand with his, pulling her close with unhuman strength.

"No!" she gasped and then shrieked, high and peeling, as he felt his teeth bite down on her arm, hard. Her blood mixed with his, tasting as ripe and sweet as sun-kissed cherries.

The breach in her skin was sufficient; there was a lurching feeling as _The Other_ entered her bloodstream. For a brief second he felt its priorities: defend host, kill assailant; failing that, wipe her memories. There was a moment of dizziness then, like one too many spin on a carousel, and he felt _The Other_ retreat from his mind, control of his body snapping back into place.

The witch staggered back, instantly aware of an attack on her senses. A flurry of healing charms erupted from her wand: clotting blood, mending skin, trying to burn the unknown infection away. It was useless, he knew; once _The Other_ was inside, superficial treatment was pointless.

She must have realized this at the same time, because she suddenly fell to her knees, clutching her temples. He could feel a copy of _The Other_ warring inside his attacker, assaulting the barriers of her mind. Most of them stood staunch and stalwart, however; _The Other_ could not spread strong copies, and her life was in no danger.

Still, some defenses were beginning to crack. Even in its weakened state, _The Other_ was a formidable opponent. Shifting and sliding, it could find even the slightest flaw to exploit.

Dolohov's head sank down and spied his wand right by his arm. The witch must have knocked it back to him when she stumbled! A hope flashed through his chest. Mustering all the strength that remained, Dolohov strained his hand out, extending his fingers as far as he could. Barely grazing the wooden edge, he rocked it back and forth until he could curl a finger around and slide it towards himself.

The mudblood was still on her knees, her mental barriers failing one by one. Her eyes were wide and desperate, and she suddenly yelled, calling out to her owl. It flew down instantly, and the last thing he saw was her transfiguring some debris from their fight into a piece of parchment and a quill.

Then, spitting out the spell with blood, he apparated away, and the world went black.

Growling at the memory, he replaced the bandage with a new one, casting a containment spell on the wound. It burned constantly, and when he found the bitch of a mudblood, he would make her pay for every single moment of pain she had caused him.

He left the bathroom and got dressed, before descending to the ground floor. He entered the kitchen, walked towards the fridge, and was in the process of pouring himself some milk when a low moan made his pause. He closed the fridge door, glancing down to his feet. There, a girl, no older than 20, lay, naked and bloodied, her body covered in multiple lacerations. Her eyes, surrounded by trails of dried tears, fluttered open. "Ple-" she tried to beg, but then convulsed in a raspy cough.

A part of him was amused she had survived so long. He had spied her on what he jokingly called 'his rounds'. _The Other_ wanted to spread, _needed_ to spread, and Dolohov had no choice but to comply. He would walk the muggle world, looking for opportune targets, sometimes following his gut, sometimes being directed by the being within him. It was during one of these trips that he saw the girl. She was young and beautiful; long dark hair waving in the breeze, the firm roundness of her breasts evident underneath a hoodie which had CAMBRIDGE spelled out in big block letters. She was happy, laughing and smiling while holding one of those small plastic boxes muggles talked into all the time. _The Other_ whispered his demands, but Dolohov fought him off. Sometimes, he could do that. He wanted this girl for himself.

He got what he wanted.

Imperioused, she took him to the terraced housing unit in which she lived with her parents. He made her kill them, before forcing her to strip in her own kitchen. He didn't force himself upon her, for he couldn't: the Dark Lord had made sure a certain part of his anatomy was gone forever after his failure during the war. So, he didn't touch this girl; just made her cut herself over and over and over again. Her body was his canvas, to do with as he pleased. He transformed her into a work of art.

The most wonderful part of this was she was conscious for the full extent of her torture. Until she could no longer stand from the loss of blood, she bargained, and cried, and begged. Her screams were a melody to his ears, an exquisite arrangement of violin highs and bass lows.

He had been this way all his life. There was no childhood trauma, no terrible tragedy in his past. As a young boy, he had just entered a stage where he enjoyed ripping the wings off of flies and pulling cats' tails. He never left that phase of development; instead, his desires grew and spread. His first murder - a young boy from a village near his home - came at the tender age of 12.

That memory still brought a smile to his lips. Casually stepping over the moaning girl and avoiding any puddles of blood, he pulled out a chair and sat at the table, indulging in some cookies. The mother had been a terrific cook, and a delicious smell wafted from the batch she had baked for her husband and daughter. Now, they were all Dolohov's, along with the milk.

Taking a bite, he pondered his future actions. The problem was he was running out of time. His contacts at the ministry informed him that the infected witch that attacked him - Hermione Granger, who was the cause of so many problems for him - had not been found yet. Her memories had been sufficiently wiped by _The Other,_ and that was good. But it wouldn't hold. Within several months, the infection would die, and her memories would return. Then, she would surely go public, and a huge, organized hunt for his persona would begin. That would keep his partner and their ministry thralls safe, but it wouldn't help him.

 _The Other_ growled within him, yearning to be whole. Dolohov had slowly figured out the nuances of his situation over the months following Voldemort's fall. When the Dark Lord died, _The Other_ awoke in his mind, along with several memories that had been concealed.

 _The Other_ had few needs: protect itself (along with its host), spread as much as possible, and, most importantly, find _The Key._ Without _The Key, The Other_ was just a pale version of itself. Voldemort, in very unlikely scenario of his death, had created the two and enchanted the former to unlock the capabilities of the latter.

From what Dolohov understood of his memories, _The Key_ was supposed to make its presence known _,_ but how it would do that was beyond him. Would it send some magical signal? Some sign that attracted _The Other_ like blood in the water draws in sharks?

His lack of knowledge infuriated _The Other_ and it punished him frequently with lighting shocks of blistering pain. It wanted to be whole, to be powerful, and if Dolohov wanted to live, he would find a way to accomplish that.

So he had traveled all across Great Britain and Europe for years, searching obscure references, delving into dusty tomes of dark magic. He tried to follow Voldemort's wanderings when he had been a teen and then a spirit, following his first death at the hands of The-Boy-Who-Lived. He had even visited the home of his ancestors. It all amounted to nothing. So far, Dolohov had found just legends and myths, details of the spell Voldemort based his magic on, but not a single hint on _The Key's_ location.

The girl moaned again, still clutching at life with all the tenacity of youth. He looked down, meeting the raw pain in her eyes. Her hair spread about her head, like a dark heavenly halo.

"Please…" she whimpered, summoning all of her remaining strength to speak her next words.

"Please… let me… die..."

He remembered the horror on her face when he forced her to murder her parents. She tried to fight his control, but she was just a muggle, so what could she really do? She must have been down here for hours, locked in the prison of her helpless body, going over the horrid events again and again in her mind. If he let her live, she would carry those memories with her. She wouldn't last. And so, leaning down and taking out his wand, he granted her this small mercy. Her lifeless eyes blinked open and then froze, staring out into the pale nothingness of death.

He stood, dusting crumbs from his robes, the girl already gone from his mind. _The Other_ demanded action. He apparated away - he had a _key_ to find.

* * *

 **To all of you that are continuing to stick with this story: Thank you! If I write another one, I'll make it much happier...**


	17. Train, Reprise

**Guys, the notification for the previous update never went out. So, if you haven't read chapter 16 - go do that now.**

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Malfoy, as it turned out, was a huge fucking chicken.

"It's just a plane!" she yelled at him from within her bedroom, tossing the last of her luggage into a suitcase and slamming the lid. It made a haphazard mess, but she was too frustrated to care. She had already paid for the tickets! First class, just to appease this blond, entitled git; they had cost a fortune! And now he was adamantly refusing to get in that 'ungainly death contraption'.

"It's a metal tube packed with filthy muggles like sardines in a can! It flies on prayer!" his voice carried from her kitchen. From the sounds of it, he was busy opening and closing every single drawer in there, which was beginning to drive her up the wall. She had told him to stay put - not touch all her stuff! Why had she even invited him here?! Oh, that's right - because she had left all the packing to the last minute, and their plane was departing in several hours. That same plane that Malfoy was refusing to board!

"It's spacious and roomy!" she retorted, throwing a make-up kit into a tote bag. "First class, Malfoy: you'll be treated like the king you imagine yourself to be- What are you doing?" She froze in the doorway, startled by the sight in front of her.

Malfoy, who had been kneeling on her kitchen table, jumped down, straightening his clothes.

"Nothing," he lied without a shred of guilt.

If she believed that even for a second, she was a nargle.

"You were just on the table, what in heaven's name possessed you to go there?!"

"Oh, alright," Malfoy admitted, thoroughly inspecting his neatly pressed robes for any leftover wrinkles. "I was just checking to see if they were originals." He pointed to the two Turner paintings on the wall.

"Why would you think-" for a few seconds, Hermione was lost for words, her mouth gaping wide open. She must have looked quite a fright, because he gave her the trademark Malfoy smirk.

"Of course not!" she snapped then, angry at him, herself, and the world at large. "These are just reproductions, the originals are in a museum!"

Malfoy shrugged. "Muggles sometimes produce good art, and wizards want the real deal," he explained. "So, there are several groups I know that specialize in making indistinguishable - well, for muggles anyway - fakes and using them to replace with the original. The wizard then gets the original painting, the muggles - a quality fake that they couldn't tell apart anyway, and everyone's happy. I can get you in contact with them if you like. You'll have the have real Turners hanging on your wall in no time."

Aghast, she wasted a whole minute processing such barefaced impudence and then another in search of the words that would adequately express her indignance. "Is that would you've done then?" she finally asked, beginning to slowly advance on his remorseless form. "Steal priceless works of art from museums and galleries?"

Malfoy blinked several times, possibly realizing he had crossed some sort of line.

"Oh, err… no, of course not," he said somewhat unconvincingly, taking several steps back, and then added for good measure: "That would be bad."

Shockingly, his pro forma tone did nothing to allay her disgust, and she continued to slowly approach him with a deliberate determination, like a lioness stalking her prey. Hermione's mind pictured a thousand small angry birds tearing the arrogant pureblood's clothes to shreds and ripping apart that slimy, gelled hairstyle. Malfoy, who's observational and survival skills had become rather acute after surviving months of cohabitation with Voldemort and Co., quickly moved to place the table between them.

"Hey, Granger!" he nervously chuckled. "Let's focus here! Priorities, you know. Thousands of infected muggles; apocalypse impending. Let's not get hung up on a pair of paintings and a sculpture or two."

"Oh, a sculpture or two?!" she growled with a predatory glint in her eyes. "Another prime example of muggle abuse, you mean?"

"Look, I never… it's just… accepted behavior among us. I never personally contributed to it in any way, I swear. As you know, I've been busy these last years."

She paused, drawing her lips into a thin line.

"Pinky promise?" sensing her weakening resolve, he offering her a digit.

"Ugh, that's not what that means- never mind," she responded, shaking her head as a slight grin broke through her stern countenance. Seeing him botch such an inherently muggle gesture was amusing, and he was right: they had more pressing issues. Later, she promised herself.

When this matter is taken care of, she'll return to the ministry, take back her position in magical law enforcement. She was still popular, and, if this endeavour turned out a success, her star would shine for years to come. With many pureblood factions gutted, rising through the ranks of the ministry was all but a guarantee. In fact, she mused, reaching the summit itself was a very real possibility. Imagine that: the first muggleborn Minister for Magic. She would enact real change, burn away all the archaic and abusive traditions like the one Malfoy just mentioned, and reform this stagnant swamp of a society! Oh, the dreams she dreamed.

"Granger?" His pinky was still outstretched, and she begrudgingly offered up her own, feeling rather silly. Malfoy beamed and shook it. "I still won't fly on any planes, though," he said.

"Why?!" Hermione exploded, tearing her hand back. "Thousands of people do!"

"Thousands of people have a deathwish, you mean."

"That's not true!" she sputtered in return. "It's perfectly safe: the odds of-"

"Oh, don't be such a swot with your statistics; flying in such a manner is completely unnatural!"

"You fly _on a_ _broom_ all the time!"

"I _control_ a broom," he snapped, tugging at the edge of his robes. "But I refuse to place my life in the hands of a muggle."

She paused, distracted by the motions his hands were making. Seeing her glance, he quickly hid them in his pockets and nervously shifted from foot to foot. And that was when she realized - _he was scared._ The more she pondered on that thought, the more it made sense. Even with his recent exposure to the muggle world, the idea of being strapped into a seat, stuck on a piece of metal powered by turbofan engines, tearing through clouds at hundreds of miles per hour - it must be terrifying for the insular pureblood. Not that he'd ever admit it directly.

"The tickets are non-refundable," she grumbled for show, gauging his reaction. It didn't disappoint: he visibly relaxed at her apparent surrender.

"I'll cover it," Malfoy chirped. Of course - his net worth was still in the millions.

"Remind me again how the ministry didn't confiscate all the contents of your family's vaults?"

"You've read my file," he responded, face darkening. "You know they tried."

 **...**

 **...**

Magnanimously, Malfoy agreed to travel by train. How one hollow tube _under_ the English Channel was superior to one _above_ it, was beyond Hermione, but she didn't argue. Brightest witch of her age, and all that.

"Floo, Granger," Malfoy said, his lip curling at the sight of muggle crowds inside London's St. Pancras Station. "The way normal people travel."

Biting back her remark about what the Hogwarts Express was then, Hermione stuck to a reasonable counter: "Floo connections are monitored."

"Portkey, in that case."

"Also monitored. Give it up, Malfoy: you know we can't risk any magical means of travel. We've talked about this."

The man by her side was ready to argue the point, if out of sheer stubbornness, but had to swerve suddenly to avoid getting entangled in a group of Chinese tourists. Swearing profusely, he dodged left, then right, trying very hard not to touch anyone, lest he become contaminated by some deadly muggle illness. Hermione's suitcase clacked over the tiled floor behind him. It was a roller, but still - if someone had told her in Hogwarts that Draco Malfoy would be carrying her luggage, she would have marched them up to the Hospital Wing, pronto. Now, Hermione couldn't help feeling a sort of smug satisfaction at the incongruous image.

Huffing a little from exertion, Malfoy caught up to her, and they boarded the train. Hermione took a seat and tugged off her pumps, flexing her toes. What she wouldn't give for a nap and a nice foot massage. She hadn't slept much these past days, her brain overactive with planning for every contingency.

"Remind me again why we plan on traipsing over the whole continent instead of just searching for Dolohov in London?" Malfoy said, stowing her suitcase into the luggage rack and dropping into an adjacent seat.

"We don't know that it _is_ Dolohov, Malfoy - that's just speculation at this point. And we have no leads in London whatsoever. I found him - if it _is_ him - once by following his trail across Europe; I can do it again."

"We."

"What?"

"We can do it, Granger," he corrected her inattentively, scowling at passing muggles. He didn't notice the look of brief surprise that flashed over his companion's face.

"We," she agreed.

The train filled up, rendering any continued conversation on magical topics impossible. Hermione tugged a book out of her tote and flipped to the marked page. In the next minute, the sounds of the train and its passengers receded, and she was lying next to Bolkonsky on the war-torn fields of Austerlitz, gazing up at a lofty, infinite sky. Cannons fired in the distance; drummers beat marching rhythms; men cried in pain. _"Vive l'Empereur!"_ someone yelled nearby, but she didn't flinch, because the sky - all-encompassing and forgiving - was right there, and together with the fallen Russian prince, she marveled at its glory. If only others could witness such beauty, instead of occupying their attentions with petty disputes and short-sighted prejudices. After all, what do man's ambitions mean before the grace of God?

Lost in thoughts of how her life would have turned out had there been no class warfare and no Voldemort, Hermione's eyelids slowly drooped, and she nodded off.

Draco, who had stopped paying any attention to his companion the second he saw her nose buried in a book, startled as he felt something press into his shoulder. With a strange feeling that he couldn't identify (nor did he want to), he turned his head to stare at the Gryffindor girl nestled against him. The same girl that he had bullied in school; that was tortured in his house. The girl that should hate him, but didn't. A few strands of her rebellious hair tickled his chin, and her scent - aster and foxberries - washed over him again.

The train departed the station with a soft _hiss_ , slowly gathering momentum towards the City of Lights. He looked over the top of Hermione's head, out the window, watching people he didn't know and buildings he couldn't recognize. He was happy.


	18. Cotton Balls

**There have been some issues with notifications recently, so, if you're a follower or a returning reader, you may have missed a chapter or two.**

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Paris greeted them with low temperatures, smothering rain and heavy gusts of wind. Hermione's black wool coat offered decent protection from the elements, but she shivered nonetheless and then cast a warming charm; discreetly, of course, for she was surrounded by muggles!

 _...Muggles._ That was how she thought of them now. Their defining characteristic – the inability to practice magic – was now a staple of her perception. She had divided the world into two camps, firmly placing herself in one and distancing from the other. It wasn't even the fact that she could do magic, and they could not. It was that magic had become her second nature; that it had changed the way she thought and acted. She knew the weather was cold, yet her impulse hadn't been to rush to the waiting taxi, no; it had been to reach for her wand.

And that was understandable, because that was how she solved everyday problems.

Cleaning? Dishes? Transportation? Accommodations? A muggle wasted so much time every day on these simple tasks, often in uncomfortable conditions, while she just cast a spell. Like now: faced with the chilly outdoors, her solution had been to simply magic the problem away. One incantation – and she was warm, while everyone else had to shiver and rub their hands together.

It felt good to be a witch: to have that, which others didn't.

And yet – that was the problem, wasn't it? If these were her feelings – a _muggleborn's_ feelings – then what would a generational pureblood think about people who couldn't conceive of talking hats and living portraits, flying brooms and biting books, softly simmering potions or mirrors that gave you advice on your looks?

Voldemort hadn't been a cause. He was a symptom of the sheer polarity between the two worlds.

They were so remarkably different, so isolated in most regards, yet clashing in odd ways, that it was only logical for certain preconceptions to take root and grow. Muggles were weak. Muggles were stupid and filthy. They washed once a month. Muggles gathered in groups and tried to kill innocent witches and wizards. The fact that, historically, the latter was kind of true didn't help at all.

So, even despite many prevailing falsehoods, pureblood ideology actually made a little sense sometimes. After all, muggles _were_ inferior. They couldn't do magic; they couldn't even understand it! And people often fear what they are unable to comprehend, which makes them prone to acts of aggression.

She felt lost for a moment. How could she change something as fundamental as that? Something that was already influencing her – the mudblood extraordinaire?

Maybe… maybe she shouldn't? While it was obvious that more tolerant attitudes towards muggleborns were required (she dreamed of an egalitarian society, after all), preaching love for masses of muggles would get her nowhere, nor was it even right.

The bare facts were that Hermione was a witch, and she was not cold. That woman over there – the one huddling next her husband for warmth – was _not_ a witch, and she _was_ cold.

That was the way the world worked. It was the natural order of things. It was–

"Hurry up, Granger, it's fucking freezing!"

Her thoughts scattered, she blushed and ran to the taxi. Casting the warming charm on just herself had been completely inconsiderate, she realized, but now it was too late. Malfoy was on her heels, arm with umbrella extended, the suitcase dutifully going _clack-clack-clack_ behind him. He got to the car first, opening the door for her, and she dove straight in. It was only when he closed it behind her that she realized what had happened.

This was certainly not how the girl in Hogwarts would have pictured her future interactions with the Slytherin wizard. He was being awful nice, but she didn't think the act was wholly sincere. It was possible he was just still feeling guilty over their past. Or, maybe, he was trying to get on her good side for this mission. Whichever it was, though, did it matter? She got to reap the benefits either way.

"Ritz, Place Vendome!" Malfoy barked to the driver, settling in beside her, and the car took off.

Speak of the Devil… Malfoy had steadfastly refused to quarter in anything less then one of Paris's chicest hotels. He had also wanted to order the Imperial Suite, but she had draw the line somewhere. They were supposed to be keeping a low profile, and the most expensive rooms in the Ritz – even if it was just a muggle hotel – hardly qualified. In addition, without magic, the suite was probably unattainable anyway; at least, on such short notice.

Still, she had hardly argued. The Ritz was vastly superior to any alternative; certainly better than her suggestions of motels on the outskirts of the city. Truth be told, after she quit her job at ministry to pursue this plague, she had been living on savings. A frugal lifestyle had allowed to draw them out as much as possible, but they were running out, nonetheless. Buying first class plane tickets had put a major dent in whatever remained, and she was glad Malfoy had covered that expense. Not that she would ever admit it. She had done _him_ a favor by letting them travel by train.

"So, what are the plans, Granger?" Malfoy asked, watching the Gare du Nord's sculpted facade disappear behind them.

"Well, there's a researcher in Saint-Denis I want to visit. He's a well known scholar in biomagic and hexes; he might offer some insight into this situation. Today, however, we'll head to the morgues and–" her voice tapered off as she glanced in his direction. Malfoy had shrugged off his coat, and _there were still several strands of her hair_ on his dark poplin shirt. Oh, curses, she was still embarrassed about falling asleep on his shoulder.

Malfoy had prodded her awake once they were close to arrival; blinking rapidly to chase the sleep from her eyes, it had taken her several seconds to remember where she was and why she was so close to the blond. Then, her mind had kicked in, and she jumped back, stammering apologies. Her face at that moment, as Malfoy had so kindly informed her when they were walking through the terminal building, had turned a color of red starkly reminiscent of the Weasley's shade of hair.

She had punched in the shoulder for that.

Still, thinking back to that moment on the train, Hermione couldn't help feeling stunned at how much she had let her guard down around him. She had never, ever, been able to be so comfortable with a man after… after the assault, with the obvious exceptions of Harry and Ron. And even that had taken time, as almost a year had to pass after the war until she could reciprocate their physical signs of affection without a slimy, tense feeling forming in the bottom of her gut. It was not fair that the simple comfort of a hug had been stolen from her by _that monster;_ that it had taken many months before she could accept a peck on the cheek from her male friends without wanting to throw up and dash somewhere far away, where it was light, and open, and free-

No. With an effort, she focused on shutting those memories down. She was fine now. She had worked through those issues. She was strong. Breathe, Hermione, breathe. One day, you will find the monster that did this to you and rip his shriveled heart out, but right now, _you are fine._

"Granger?" Malfoy's voice brought her back to the present.

"Oh, and, um… just… some other places we'll check up on," she finished lamely, mind snapping back to the issue of her traitorous hair. What would she do it with it? She considered several options and then decided on 'nothing'. She would do nothing with it, because plucking it off his shoulder was certainly _not_ something she would do. She would just wait until he noticed it, and then they could play _'we'll-pretend-this-never-happened-ok?'_ game.

Meanwhile, Malfoy just started at her like she was crazy, but then shrugged, clicking his tongue, and turned back to the window. His smell – the one she first noticed when she woke up – wafted over her senses. It was like an ocean breeze under the tropical sun. Cologne?

Ok, Hermione, she mentally chided herself. Get a grip.

Thankfully, a cheery melody interrupted her runaway emotional train. It could only be one of several people calling; withdrawing her cell, she confirmed it was Harry. She had to buy him a phone before leaving so that they could stay in touch without risking owl post. Before that, Harry didn't have a cell phone – he didn't need it. Just like her, he had become firmly entrenched in the wizarding community, leaving muggle life behind.

After exchanging pleasantries, Harry asked how their case was progressing and whether or not Malfoy was being a git.

"You just give the word, and Ron and I'll be there in a second, teach him a lesson or two," he said, only half-joking.

"I'm fine, he's fine; we've just arrived. I'll check for you-know-what's presence this evening, and we'll proceed with the plan tomorrow."

"Ok, 'Mione. You just be careful, alright? And don't trust Malfoy to have your back too much. You know what to do in case–"

" _Yes, I know, Harry. Thank you."_

"I'm sorry. You know I just worry."

She sighed. "I know," she said. "Love you."

"Love you too, 'Mione. Bye."

The conversation ended just in time for her to see the taxi turn onto the Rue de la Paix. Chic boutiques and fancy hotels, topped by steeply pitched mansard roofs, lined the street. Shifting to the middle of the seat (with Malfoy throwing her a curious glance), Hermione spied the Vendome Column through the windshield ahead. At the apex, a bronze statue of Napoleon stood on its grandly plinth. The original monument had been torn down over a century ago, but the replacement was just as imposing. It was a commemoration to the Emperor's victory at the battle of Austerlitz; Hermione remembered that some of the original bronze plates were cast by melting down cannons captured from the defeated Russian and Austrian armies.

This made her thoughts turn back to the book she had been reading on the train; to the lofty sky under which a wounded Bolkonsky realized the sheer insignificance of man with all of his aspirations. If only the world would follow suit...

Their taxi crossed the intersection where the Rue Danielle Casanova became Rue des Capucines, and entered the canted corners of Place Vendome.

The next half hour flew by Hermione in a shell-shocked daze. She had never wanted for anything in her life; her parents were dentists and made respectable salaries. They had money, but this… this was _Money,_ with emphasis on the capital "M". Malfoy (another capital "M"), felt as comfortable here as a fish in water. With airs of haughty arrogance, he sneered at the staff, pointedly ignoring the floral cascades of greenery sprinkled through a long, carpeted, baroque hall. What did he care for gilded wingback armchairs or wall coverings of padded silk damask? He had seen it all before.

Hermione, on the other hand, tried very hard to keep her eyes from roving around the hall like some peasant from a village visiting the city for the first time. Her attire, while neat and elegant, was conspicuously out of place with these posh surroundings.

Their rooms were already prepared; Malfoy had paid ahead from his muggle bank account, which had been a surprise in and of itself. She had almost stumbled when she heard about his checking and savings' accounts.

 _"_ _Why would you even need them?" she had asked. "Isn't Gringotts sufficient?"_

 _"_ _Can't place my work checks there," he replied with a shrug. "And Gringotts doesn't exactly accept direct deposit either."_

 _"_ _Wait, you're talking about your… McDonald's paychecks?!' An incredulous expression crossed her face. It's not like he needed the money; it was a drop in the ocean compared to what he had._

 _"_ _Of course."_

 _"_ _You mean… you keep it? The minimum wage from a job you hate, working alongside people you despise?"_

 _He had sighed with great exasperation. "Morals are morals," he explained. "Money is money."_

Flexible morals were always a staple of Slytherin house, she mused, although many argued that it was simple practicality. Only Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, out of either stubbornness or loyalty, were ready to die for their ideals; most Slytherins and Ravenclaws figured it was more prudent to compromise in certain situations. Neither of these approaches was inherently wrong; it's just that some things you couldn't afford to compromise on. Ever. She knew that better than most – she had fought a war because of it.

Morality aside, though, Malfoy had one thing right: money _was_ money, and the proof was all around her.

Their rooms were adjacent to one another. Inside hers, the walls were a butter yellow, the bed of the softest, springiest material, and the balcony opened to a fantastic view of the Place Vendome. What she wanted most right now was to go out and explore, but she simply didn't have the time. She had told Malfoy to meet her in the lobby in half an hour, and there were several things she needed to do before that. Quickly undressing, she headed towards the bathroom.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Twenty-five minutes later, a knock echoed through his room. Draco, fresh out of the shower and buttoning his shirt, walked to the door, feeling a bit hesitant.

"Come on, Malfoy!" Granger's impatient voice filtered through, as she banged on the door again. Draco opened it with a frown.

"I thought we were meeting down in–" he began and then stopped, his sentence hanging unfinished. He had to blink several times to make sense of the sight that had strolled into his room.

In less than half an hour Granger had… changed. Her hair, still falling down in riotous curls, was now a sandy shade of blonde; her eyes twinkled a periwinkle-blue; her skin was a tone darker, and her chest had… well, he wasn't going to stare, but he was pretty sure it had expanded a size or two.

He would have never recognized her on the street.

"You look, err… different," he hesitantly offered.

Granger scowled. "And I should have donned this little bimbo charade before we even left. It was foolish not to – we can't risk anyone seeing me, even if it unlikely."

"Hmm." That made sense, he supposed. "The eyes?" he asked.

"Contact lenses. They're–"

"I know what they are. Did you use muggle means for everything else too?"

"No. Lima's Luxuries," she admitted with a slight blush, referring to the newly-opened trendy Diagon Alley Salon & Spa. "Potions for skin and hair. Ginny got them for me."

"And the, ahh…" His gaze traveled down to her breasts. Granger obviously didn't understand the question for a second. Then, there was a moment of disbelief on her features as she realized exactly _what_ he meant.

" _Excuse me_?" Snapping in a scandalized tone, she crossed her arms. Standing as straight as an arrow, and with glowering force of a thousand daggers, her pose just dared him continue this line of questioning.

Great job, Draco, he thought to himself with sarcasm. What girl _doesn't_ like getting asked why her boobs changed? Any more holes you wanna dig, while you're at it? Maybe Avada yourself? No?

"No, I mean, err..." he stammered, nervously clearing his throat.

He had a sudden flashback to the beginning of 5'th year, when Goyle, in front of the whole common room, had asked Pansy to blow him. Draco still vividly remembered how all the conversations around them ceased, and heads swiveled to see the raven-haired witch's response. And what a spectacle she delivered. Pansy, of course, didn't know that Goyle wasn't being serious – it was just some stupid dare. Turning a vibrant shade of crimson, with a look that could murder house-elves on the spot, she jumped up and proceeded to shoot hex after hex, chasing Greg all around the common room. Everyone had laughed (well, except Goyle, of course), and it was one of Draco's few steadfast funny memories from that year. It wasn't funny anymore suddenly, because Granger was looking exactly like Pansy had before she started screaming about tearing Goyle's bollocks off, and then he could go blow himself, thank you very much!

"You, um, just look very nice," he finished, cringing from how feeble his own words sounded.

"Um?" Granger raised an eyebrow, and he quickly corrected himself.

"No 'um', I mean! You look different, but nice. Very nice." Eloquent, Draco.

Granger _harrumphed,_ glaring suspiciously. He pasted on his most innocent-looking smile in response, trying to ignore the war beat drumming of her fingers. Several moments of staring like that at each other, and then Granger suddenly bit her lip. Her eyes, glacial just a second ago, now twinkled with mischievous glee. He had just a moment to wonder what was happening before she broke out in a hearty, delighted laugh.

"Oh, your face, Malfoy!" she wheezed, giving him a playful slap on the shoulder. "You thought I was going to curse you, didn't you?"

He just stood there, shocked. Did she just…

"Wait, you… you were having me on?!"

"Of course, silly!" she chuckled. "I don't care about _that._ Oh, but admit it, you were terrified!"

Feeling a treacherous warmth spreading over his cheeks, he denied that vehemently: " _I was_ _not!_ I knew you were joking! Duh!"

" _Duh!_ " she teased, mimicking him, and then rolled her eyes. "Sure you did!"

This was getting ridiculous. A change of subject was in order.

"Why are you here again?" he snapped. "Weren't we meeting up in the lobby?"

I took a minute or two for Granger to get the last laughs out of her system. Finally, wiping a bit of moisture from her eyes, her face became solemn.

"Sorry, Malfoy," she said with a sigh. "It's been ages since I laughed like that. Thank you for… well..."

Draco, mildly miffed that a Gryffindor had managed to trick him, just grumbled something along of the lines of _it's fine_ and _let's move on already, shall we?_

"Ok, ok," Granger agreed good-naturedly. "I came here to see you, actually."

"Oh?" He quirked an eyebrow.

"Yes," she continued, her voice suddenly grave and serious. "You're here because you're supposed to have my back on this mission of ours, right?"

Draco frowned. Was she insinuating he wouldn't hold up his end of the bargain?

"I gave an oath, Granger," he growled, "And I intend to uphold it."

"I know, Malfoy, and I'm confident you will," she replied, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. "So, it's not that."

She reached in her bag and pulled out a long, thin case. "It's just, well, you're not much good without a wand now, are you?"

Her bluntness went right over him. He had to take a step back, carefully, because of a sudden weakness in his knees.

"A wand?" he asked, throat dry and voice trembling.

"A wand," she repeated, extending the case towards him. "Your wand, in fact. Harry got it out of lock-up for me, and I'm putting a lot of trust in you by handing it over now, so don't fuck this up."

Vision blurry, he had to swallow an odd lump in his throat. His hand shook when he reached over and clasped the case. When she let it go, her fingers traced his for a moment, sending a warmth down his spine.

He stared at the little box in his hand. Almost four years. Four years with no magic, forced to live like a _fucking muggle._

Slowly, gently, like prying open the petals of a dew-kissed morning flower, he opened the lid. There, on a bed of velvet, 10 inches long, made of hawthorn with a unicorn hair, lay his wand. He looked at it, just looked, not daring to touch. It was completely irrational, but he was scared that this was a joke, that it would vanish in a puff of smoke the second he reached for it.

Granger, understanding the significance of this moment, retreated a bit to offer him some privacy, but he didn't even notice.

"It's yours, Draco," she said softly. "Don't be afraid."

He looked up, right into her shining eyes, and grasped the wand. " _Lumos_ ," he whispered, and with an almost euphoric feeling, the magic inside him awoke, rushing through his veins and bursting forth in a brilliant, splendid glow. It was like he was bathing in the light of a dozen suns after a cold and barren winter. This was life, and meaning, and joy! His eyesight deteriorated even more; he had to blink very quickly to see anything at all.

Whatever self-control he possessed vanished at that point in time. He looked at Granger then, no, not Granger, but _Hermione_ , soaking up her lithe frame with a ravenous hunger. This was the same girl that had testified on his behalf before the courts after the war, preventing him from landing in prison. And now – she had saved him again, giving him back his life! Never in a million years would he be worthy of her kindness, but she gave it to him nonetheless. He didn't believe in any religion or any gods, but, at that moment, what he saw in the young woman before him was an angel.

It took only two quick steps, and his arms circled around her. Hermione actually squeaked when he pressed her into his chest. She was stiff at first, and for a moment he was afraid she'd break free and push him back, but she didn't. Her heart fluttered against his, as quick as a hummingbird's; slowly, it calmed, and he felt the tension seeping out of her body. She lifted her arms and returned the embrace.

"I won't," he mumbled, his voice thick with emotion. "I promise. I won't ever fuck it up."

"I know, Draco, I know," Hermione whispered back. "Shh, it's ok. Draco, we have to go now, we have a job to do."

Ignoring her dwindling protests, he continued to hold on tightly while mumbling a stream of _thank you's_ into her hair. She relented, and, together, they stood in each other's arms, while a hushed silence descended between them.

Did a minute pass? An hour? Draco didn't know. He just knew that she was warm, and graceful, and amazing, and her hair smelled wonderful, and she was clutching him back, like he was the anchor to her whole world. Silently, he offered up a prayer of thanks to any deity that would listen for putting this woman in his life.

With a very un-Slytherin-like sniffle, he tilted his head back, releasing his grip a little. She followed suit, and their eyes, misty and tear-stained, locked together. He felt her breath ghost his lips and cheek, and his must have done the same to her, because she suddenly broke her gaze away, and a rosy blush erupted on her fair skin.

"Um," she said intelligently. There was a vulnerability to her stance now, and she looked almost scared. Well, he would be damned if this woman felt scared ever again, so her pulled her back into the hug, holding her like he would never let go. He slowly ran his hands along her sides, which she must have enjoyed, because she pressed tighter against him, a small whimper escaping her lips. Her breathing was slower and heavier now. His hands, pressing into her back, felt the band of her bra through the silk of her blouse, and with a sudden clarity – a real eureka moment – he figured it out.

"Cotton balls," he whispered.

"What?"

"That's how you modified the last part of your appearance," he explained, looking extremely pleased with himself. "You stuffed cotton balls in your, um…"

That was when a second moment of inspiration – the realization that he should not have stated this theory out loud – struck him, but by then it was too late.

Hermione broke away from their embrace, taking several steps back. The sequence of emotions crossing her face was almost fascinating to watch. There was confusion followed by disbelief, then shock mixed with incredulity, disbelief again, and then her face scrunched up into a furious storm of anger.

"No, you idiot!" she yelled. "It's just a padded bra, not… cotton balls!"

"Oh."

"I can't believe this. I legitimately _cannot_ believe this!" She started storming back and forth, waving her arms, unable to contain the outburst to just vocalizations. It was like watching a bomb explode in slow motion. "We just share a moment, something poignant and… and meaningful, and important, _and you're thinking ABOUT MY TITS?!"_

Oh. Oh, shit. He may have crossed a line for real this time. Think fast, Draco.

"Well, they were right there!" he stammered the first thing that came into his mind. Maybe he should have stayed silent. Knowing when to shut your mouth is one of the golden rules of almost any successful relationship. Of course, Draco never really had any, so how would he know?

" _WHAT_ – _IS_ – _IT_ – _WITH_ – _BOYS_ – _AND_ – _BOOBS?!"_ Hermione screeched, jumping towards him and punctuating each word with a painful slap.

An eternal question, really, not that Draco was in any position to answer it. Fending off a series of vicious attacks, he sprinted out the door, yelling apologies along the way. Like a lioness on the hunt, Hermione dashed in pursuit. She was out for blood…

Marie Moreau, a burly 59-year-old maid, spied the quarreling couple as she pushed her linen-filled cart down the corridor. She paused for a second, observing a wailing young lady holding some sort of stick chasing after a blond gentleman – obviously, her beau. A dreamy smile graced the old maid's crinkled features as the young couple rushed past.

" _Ah, l'amour_ ," she sighed whimsically, recalling her own memories of passion-filled youth, and then continued on her way.

* * *

 **I'd like to extend a huge thank you for all reviewers: you guys makes my heart jump with joy.**


	19. 49

**Several hours later...**

"No, Draco, a _flick_ in the third quarter. Here, like this," Hermione said, demonstrating a complicated weaving pattern with her wand.

His answer consisted of some muddled grumbles about blasted know-it-all's, which she would certainly have none of.

"Hush and focus! Your wand work is abhorrent!"

She saw him tense, blood rushing to his face. "Well, pardon me for not being in a position to practice any magic these past years," he snapped back, making her chest to constrict with guilt.

After a short, tense silence, she apologized.

"I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

Instead of replying, he tried to replicate the wand movements correctly; this time, he managed to get the _flick_ on-point, but it put his wrist in the wrong position, and the spell fizzled out. Again.

"Godfuckingdammit!" he swore, jumping up and kicking the sofa he had been sitting on. Turning away, he started to pace back and forth, until coming to a stop in front of the high french doors that led to the balcony. Outside, the rain had ceased, but the sky was still obscured behind heavy, rolling clouds. Hermione rose and walked over to him, reaching out to grip his shoulder from behind. She could feel the tension in his muscles, wound as a coil. Frustration and anger rolled off of him in waves.

"It's a difficult spell, Draco," she said soothingly, sliding her hand down to rub his arm. "Harry and Ron couldn't manage it either at first."

"And exactly how long _did_ it take them, because we've been at this an hour, and I just… I feel so fucking useless!"

"As you've said: you're out of practice. Now, how about this: let's take a break. I'm feeling rather peckish, and I know for a fact you're starving."

As if to emphasize her words, Draco's stomach emitted an audible growl. He slowly relaxed, and she let her arm drop, moving up to stand beside him.

"It's really something, isn't it?" she said quietly, peering at the Vendome column in the middle of the square. Its spiraling bas-relief plates glowed under the muted light of several street lamps. But the man next to her didn't appear to be swayed by mere illumination and metal.

"It's a pillar with a dead man on it," he said with an indifferent shrug. "They come; they go."

She disagreed, and told him so in a scolding tone: "You don't mean that. Art is a vital part of history."

"Maybe. But this – this is not art. It's a monument to one's ego, a self-aggrandizing display of hubris."

Hermione sighed heavily, shoulders slumping. She didn't like this acidic, sullen mood of his. Fortunately, he seemed to snap out of it the next second. "What did you want to get?" he asked, changing the topic.

"To eat?" The Gryffindor girl pondered that for a moment, and then drawled the next words out with a teasing twist to her lips. "I was thinking maybe a hamburger with some fries–" Draco started to make gagging noises. "–and a soda to wash it down with. Large, of course. Why, Draco," she added, innocently batting her eyes at him, "is something the matter?"

The man had turned a light shade of green and actually started to growl like some rabid dog.

"Very funny, you witch. _Ugh._ Just one thought of hamburgers and fucking fast food–" He shuddered. "I've had more than several lifetimes' worth working at that filthy place. Never want to see it again."

Hermione laughed. "How about some room service then?"

It was 10 by the time their food was delivered, which they spread out over a low coffee table. There was a bit of a jostle of who would sit where before they figured it out; each taking one side of the sofa. When she passed the cutlery to her companion, Hermione couldn't help but feel proud that he had finally nailed down the spell she had been struggling to teach him. The moment he had, his face had lit up with delight, like rays of sun breaking through a stormy cover of clouds. His happiness had even eclipsed her own, as he had pulled her into another impromptu hug, before breaking away with a look of embarrassment. The hug had felt good. Almost as good as the one they had shared earlier that day, when she returned his wand.

Hermione still had trouble analyzing that moment. That hug had sparked such a powerful cascade of emotions that it made her recollections all fuzzy. First, fear had come. It was numb and blank, transforming the war heroine, a veteran fighter of many battles, back into a terrified little girl. Blood pounding in her ears, all she could do was watch helplessly as the arms closed in around her, his frame cutting out her line of sight. She wanted to move, but couldn't; her body betrayed her, becoming stiff and unresponsive. Just a single, panicked thought rocketed through the cavernous expanses of her mind: that the arms would close in, locking her away from the world, blocking off the light, and she would be back _there._ Back in that damp cellar with its rotting vegetables, back with the silver-masked man.

It happened. Draco's arms completed the circle, and the fear, instead of suffocating her, had fled, washing away like silt down a river, leaving behind cold shock. Not the petrifying, dizzying kind that rips your soul to pieces, no! It was the shock that accompanies a dive into frigid pool of water; it grips you tight, but then relents, and you warm up, bursting to the surface with childish glee. Just like that, the arms were around her, but there was no cellar. It didn't burst forth, but remained concealed, hidden in the rear of her mind, the painful memories lying dormant within.

For a moment, she reveled in this absence of fear. Her heartbeat had slowed, and she lifted her arms to return the embrace. Hugs – and all other kinds of physical intimacies – were a rarity for her. She could accept them from a very limited circle – her few real friends. She could initiate a hug with someone else too, if she felt comfortable enough, but it was always brief, and made her feel clammy inside. Which is why her body's unexpected reaction – such a strong feeling of security in the arms of this man – was so shocking.

She remembered whispering something to the blond and trying to let go, but he wouldn't let her. His words were muted but constant, like a fresh mountain stream flowing over a bed of mossy rocks.

And then, suddenly, his arms were sliding at her sides, prompting her heart to ramp up again, sending endorphin-saturated blood racing through her veins. Breath hitching, she pressed into the broad, smooth plane of his shirt-covered chest, her palms traveling upwards, exploring the ridges of Draco's spine, delving into valleys of muscle and sinew. His scent, so masculine and simultaneously sweet, brought her consciousness to a never before experienced euphoric high; it was like she was on the edge of a massive cliff, and the whole world was spread out before her. At any moment, she could jump down and fly, free from any shackling constraints. She felt a delightful, forbidden warmth spread throughout her body, pooling in-between her thighs; vaguely, she remembered gripping him tighter, needing him closer, needing something _more_ , and then…

And then he had ruined it all by being a complete idiot.

Which, in hindsight, she was glad for. She had not been prepared for those sudden, intoxicating emotions. They had swamped her like water gushing from a breached dam. She needed time to think, to reorganize her inner world in conjunction with the revelation that she was attracted to Draco Malfoy! How? Why? Her mind reeled.

Most men her body perceived as threats, to be kept at a distance. They were repulsive, wanting creatures. But with him… Possibly, it was because he had found and rescued her from the abysmal clutches of the muggle world. She knew he wouldn't harm her either; he had had many opportunities to do so already. Maybe it was also the result of continued proximity; she had spent a night in his house – albeit memoryless – and then used him as a glorified pillow during their ride to Paris.

He had been a good pillow.

"Sickle for you thoughts?" Draco said, popping a cut of milk-fed lamb into his mouth.

"That's it's better than a McDouble," she joked. He rolled his eyes.

"It's decent for a muggle dish, I'll give them that." Now it was Hermione rolling her eyes. Her food in particular – sea bass roasted with saffron butter, with a lead of artichokes, mousse and marinated cockles with crispy mussels – was mouthwatering. It had also cost 140 euros.

"What, Draco, can't have _humans_ preparing your dinners? Has to be a house-elf?"

"I'll have you know," he replied, tilting his nose upwards in a mock display of pureblood arrogance, "that Linny prepares food that will put any human chef to shame–"

Hermione snorted, spying some succulent-looking stuffed eggplant on his plate. Quickly, while he was busy singing odes of praise to the cooking of his house-elf, she reached out and speared it, stealing it for herself. Draco stopped in the middle of his speech, mouth hanging wide open.

"You took my eggplant!" he exclaimed, looking as betrayed as a child that had his lollipop stolen.

Staring him straight in the eyes, she slowly inched the fork closer to her mouth, reveling in the growing look of horror on his face.

" _No._ "

" _Yes_!" With a wicked grin, she closed her lips about the catch, moaning with pleasure. "Defifcious," she garbled with a full mouth, before gulping it down.

"You took my food," he said, still in an apparent state of shock.

"Oh, come off it, Draco." She waved her hand. "It's just a little eggplant."

He frowned, looking perturbed. "You don't know?" he asked.

"Know what?"

He paused before explaining. "It's only customary for married couples or family to share food. I thought you were just playing around at first, but you… you actually ate it."

Hermione wanted to blurt out what a ridiculous tradition that was, and that sharing food with friends (because he was a friend, right?) was completely normal, but then decided that insulting pureblood ways of life wasn't the wisest course of action. Instead, she allowed her inquisitiveness to lead.

"I've never read anything like that before," she said. "Nor did Ron ever mention it."

"It's just something we grow up with: we learn what's appropriate and what's not by observing the people around us. I wouldn't know if there's a book written about it. Everybody just… knows. Although, I must admit I'm not surprised about Weasley; that family has long ago broken every spoken and unspoken rule. Wait. _Ew._ You've shared _food_ with him?"

Hermione felt her eyebrows rising in indignation, irritated at the implied disgust. "Not only did I share food with him, I shared a _tent_! For months! With him and Harry. We were on the run, Draco. What we ate… we were lucky if we went to bed without our stomachs rumbling from hunger."

Draco's face had sunk during her explanation. He fidgeted, pushing food around his plate, and then lifted his head to meet her gaze. When he spoke, his voice rang of shame.

"I'm sorry."

Hermione sighed, repressing the nightmare-inducing memories that always surfaced when the war was brought up. Instead, she hooked a piece of sea bass with her fork, and held it out towards the pureblood wizard.

"Make it up to me, then. Take a bite."

"Off your fork?"

"Well, unless you're afraid of my… germs," she said, her tone noticeably flat. The implication was clear: it was a test to see if he could go against his upbringing. Would he be able to share with a non-family member, a muggleborn at that? A mudblood? Could he do it, or was some part of him still repulsed by her unclean heritage? It wasn't entirely fair to spring such a test, but she had to know. If he had truly denounced his society's dogmas, then he could prove it to her. Right now.

Draco's face reflected his inner turmoil for a second. It seemed he understood the significance of the request. After a second, he scooted over, his decision clear. Angling the utensil for easier access, Hermione watched as Draco closed his mouth around it with deliberation, chewing and then swallowing. In doing so, he never broke eye contact. His full lips glistened with grease, and she had to quell a sudden desire to wipe them with her thumb. Instead, she took another forkful of food off her plate and edged nearer, so that he wouldn't have to lean so far. Their thighs brushed together; again, he opened his mouth, only to nibble morsels of fish off the fork with a sequence of tiny bites.

They repeated this process, as she fed him the rest of her dish, one forkful at a time. His eyes, bathed in shadow from the room's only lit lamp, never left hers. He didn't utter a single word; nor did she. A car sloshed over puddles somewhere below, and his tongue darted out, licking beads of juice from his lips.

She imagined them participants in some archaic ritual, where every movement was choreographed; every beat of the heart recorded in advance. A rhythmic _tick-tock_ from a clock measured out seconds passing by, but for the two people here time stood still. It was just them, alone on an island of solitude and hushed silence. With every bite he took, he slid closer across the sofa, until their shoulders bumped and her side pressed into his.

Their bodies were alongside one another, their faces only inches apart. His eyes were wide, pupils like huge, dark moons in a milky sky. His breath ghosted over her skin, causing goosebumps to rise across her entire body. Pulse quickening, she felt some primordial, womanly part of her awaken, washing her body with desire. It was instinctual and ancient; it demanded that she lean in nearer, hold her breath, close her eyes, and–

 _Ting._ The clock on the marble mantelpiece chimed. Her eyes popped open. Draco's face was only an inch away.

 _Ting. Ting. Ting._

A total of 11 times it rang, its sounds reverberating off the brass candle holders and silver cutlery. The magic of the moment fled; suddenly aware of their closeness, both of them sprang back.

Draco cleared his throat. His flushed skin contrasted sharply with his usual pale countenance.

A car honked in the distance.

Realizing that she was still holding her breath, Hermione exhaled slowly, tugging an errant curl back behind her ear with a self-conscious gesture.

"I should… go change. We're leaving soon?" His voice was raspy.

"In forty minutes," she replied, rising awkwardly from her seat, looking anywhere but at him.

He nodded and, without a backwards glance, fled the room.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

The cab picked them up a quarter to midnight. It only made sense to do what they planned at night; night, after all, was the time of criminals and vigilantes. The streets were mostly empty at this hour, and they passed quickly, unhindered by any traffic. Draco watched the lights of the city float by. His mind was occupied with the events of their dinner. It was impossible to deny: he had almost kissed the Gryffindor girl.

He didn't know what to make of this. Did he regret it? His body certainly didn't; on the contrary, it was very hungry for more. Between his restrictive work schedule and the fact that most of society shunned him, he hadn't had any female company in… well, since the war. Linny didn't count.

It had been so lonely at times, that he almost made moves on his muggle coworkers. Almost.

Which is probably why he had latched on to Hermione so quick; why he felt eager to be in her presence. She was the first girl he had spent idle time with in ages, and that was clouding his judgement. They had a job to do, and he needed to restrain his urges.

Guys, after all, usually exhibit exceptionally poor judgement when thinking with their dicks.

Still, he didn't like the atmosphere surrounding them. They had spoken barely a dozen words after their dinner, all of them formally stiff. This didn't feel right.

"Hermione," he spoke up.

She was looking out the window on her side of the car, back turned to him. Her body tensed at his words; when she looked towards him, it was with a stony expression.

"Hermione," he repeated, enjoying the sound of her name on his lips. "I think we should talk about what happened."

She didn't answer at first, just looked at him with her eyes that that were the color of wild honey. Then, for a brief moment, her unreadable facade cracked, giving him a glimpse of the turbulent currents swirling beneath. She was scared, he realized. Just as scared as him, if not more.

It looked like she wanted to say something then, but held it back at the last second, biting her lip instead. Her fingers fiddled with the wool sleeve ends of her coat. He reached over to still them, giving her hand a small squeeze. Her skin felt cool to the touch.

"I'm… I'm not really good at this," he fumbled for words. "And I don't know what to say… but… it's easier to figure these things out together, right?"

She glanced down to the spot where their hands were connected. Slowly, she squeezed back and slumped in her seat with a heavy sigh.

"You're right. We should. Not right now though. It's late, and we still have a job to do."

"Tomorrow then?"

"Tomorrow. Let's focus on this for now, ok? It's too important."

He nodded.

Her lips curved upwards, and then she squeezed his hand again before letting go. She didn't turn away, however, and engaged him in some lighthearted conversation. With the tension gone, it flowed easily between them, and Hermione even laughed at one of his jokes about working with muggles. Those tinkling sounds precipitated a peculiar ache in his chest, and he couldn't stop himself from watching how the corners of her eyes crinkled with joy. When they reached their destination, he became a little sad, wishing that their ride had lasted longer. He wasn't sure, but he thought she felt the same.

The taxi stopped across the street from a long, blocky building. A backlit, white sign plastered above the entrance read ' _Institut Medico-Legal de Paris'_ in big letters. Draco got out, breathing in the fresh, clear air. Muggle cities, he found, were much more bearable after a storm. It washed away the dirt and the mud; it swept clouds of toxic exhaust fumes far away; it chased people inside. Less people was always good. Especially muggles.

Draco walked a little ahead of his companion. When he reached the door, he pulled it open, letting her go through first. She strolled in, acknowledging his action with a brief nod of her head. It seemed Hermione had already accepted this as the norm in their rapport.

"Act like you belong," she whispered to him and headed off with a deliberate stride past a reception area. It was five minutes past midnight, and only a single guard stood watch. He must have been bored or really diligent at his job, because he instantly perked up at their entrance.

"Pardon!" he exclaimed, getting up from behind the reception desk as they walked past. "Pardon, Monsieur! Madame!"

Hermione paused and waited for him to approach, a flash of irritation passing through her eyes. Draco, standing by the witch's side, noticed the tip of her wand peeking out from under her coat. When the guard was five steps away, she pointed it at him and coolly said one word.

" _Imperio._ "

The guard's eyes instantly glazed over, his body becoming slack. Responding to Hermione's mental commands, he turned towards one of the sterile-white corridors leaving the hall and shuffled forward.

"Oui, oui, d'accord," he droned in a monotonous voice. "Allons-y."

Hermione followed, mentioning for Draco to do the same. Draco, admittedly, was surprised. He was expecting a confounding charm or maybe a stunner. But Hermione, without a single note of hesitation, cast an unforgivable. She could make this balding, middle-aged man do anything right now. Sing a song. Lick her boots. Jump off a building.

It was kinda hot.

Noticing the stare he was giving her, Hermione quirked an eyebrow.

"You won't tattle on me to the ministry, will you, Draco?"

He grinned wolfishly in reply. Like he would dare. He remembered how she gloated over Bellatrix's death.

"Never," he said, which seemed to appease her.

The guard guided them through a series of corridors, and then down a set of stairs. Hermione mumbled the names of different departments as they passed them by. _Histology. Toxicology. Forensic Anthropology._

Finally, they came to a set of doors with a plaque above them that read ' _Morgue_ '.

"Merci beaucoup," the witch smiled sweetly and send the guard back with a twirl of her wand.

"I have to admit," Draco said, entering a short hall with several doors on either side. One of them housed the dead. "I'm impressed."

She replied with steel in her voice, "Don't say that. There is nothing good in what I did. He was innocent and didn't deserve to have his will suppressed."

"Yet you did it anyway."

Hermione followed her wand to one of the doors, which she unlocked with a softly murmured _alohomora._ A few seconds fumbling searching for the switch, and the lights turned on.

"It was the practical thing to do," she finally answered, her lips thinning into a straight line. "It made sense."

"And thus, I am impressed."

Hermione walked over to the far wall, where racks of coolers were stacked together floor-to-ceiling, and quickly counted the ones with tags.

"49," she groaned and then turned back to him. "You don't think I was practical in school?"

"Oh, no, you were. But, there you had–"

"–Morals?"

"Yeah. A line you would never cross. No matter the circumstances."

She put too much strength into opening the first cooler, and when the hatch popped open, it swiveled rapidly on its hinges, banging against the steel frame of its neighbor.

"Some lessons," she said harshly, sliding out a plastic-wrapped body, "you learn the hard way. Maybe the war wouldn't have lasted that long if people were willing to break a rule or two. Cast an avada instead of a stunner; crucio out some information from a Death Eater. But we were the light, so no, we couldn't do that. We'd rather watch our friends die instead. Dumbledore worried too much about souls and his own machinations when he should have been preparing us to fight. And then he died, leaving us to figure it out all by ourselves, and, well, what can you expect from a group of teenagers? Of course, we wanted to be the good guys, but that comes at a cost. By the time we paid it, it was too late. So, sometimes, it's just simpler to be bad."

Her voice turned bitter by the end of her speech, and she practically ripped open the zipper on the plastic. Draco walked over, putting a hand on her shoulder. He felt her fingers grip it tightly; then, she let go.

"Show me you can do the spell," she ordered.

Draco looked down to the slab of metal. An elderly woman's face gazed upwards with unseeing eyes, her skin as pale as snow. The rest of her body was still concealed by the plastic wrap, but they had no need of it. They just needed the mind.

"Remember, a _flick_ in the third quarter, and then put your wrist–"

" _I know, Hermione!"_

She gave him a light smile and backed up, providing him with some space. "Ok."

Draco exhaled, concentrating on the magic he was about to do. Its purpose was to discover the virus they were chasing. It hid well, but Hermione and Frackenburger had created a spell that would reveal it in a body.

Raising his wand, he focused and called out to the magic he had been denied for so long. It felt bloody fantastic, like a thing of beauty was growing inside him every time he used it. He hit all the correct positions, did the _flick_ in the third quarter, making no errors with his wrist, and completed the spell with a flourish.

It took several more minutes for it to take effect. Finally, a light-blue hue colored the woman's forehead, indicating she was not infected.

Hermione clapped. "Wonderful!" she exclaimed, looking proud of her pupil. Draco grinned with triumph and zipped up the body bag, sliding it back into cold storage.

"Now," Hermione said, while he was closing the hatch. "You start on that side, I'll continue here."

Draco looked at the long line of racks. 49, he remembered the number Hermione had counted.

"Even the ones who died of natural causes?" he whined.

"Even them. We can't afford any mistakes."

49\. Draco groaned. It was going to be a long night.


	20. Let's Not Force Things

He knocked on her door at 11 the next morning, but there was no response. She was probably still asleep, he thought; after all, they had left the morgue at 3. That excursion, at least, had given them some good news: they had found zero people infected. Dolohov – or whoever was spreading the curse – wasn't in Paris.

Draco spent the next hour languidly strolling about the hotel and its surroundings, savoring that exhilarating feeling of freedom. He had a wand and no obligations, making this the best week he'd had in years. Even the crowds of muggle pedestrians couldn't dampen his good spirits. He stopped by a cafe and had breakfast, ordering some extra for Hermione to-go. On the way back to the hotel, he chuckled at the poor souls who were forced to endure the sharp bite of the cold weather, while his own body basked in the warmth of a simple charm.

He was finding any excuse to do magic, making up for years of lost time. Being able to cast a spell again was like coming out of coma: the world became brighter, louder, bigger. His senses were heightened, elevated to heavenly highs. It must be what an ex-alcoholic feels indulging himself in a sip of whiskey after years of forced soberness.

This feeling was addictive, and Draco had to struggle to keep his wand in his pants. Magic users couldn't cast spells indefinitely; eventually, fatigue settled in, and some time had to pass for a witch or a wizard to recuperate. Draco had already overextended himself at the morgue; his body ached like he'd run a marathon without stretching any muscles beforehand.

Still, tapping into his neglected reservoirs to use that magic felt so good that he hadn't been able to resist casting the warming charm.

Carrying the little box from the cafe, he made his way back up to their rooms, knocking on Hermione's door along the way. Again, there was no answer. He frowned: it was half past one already. Surely, she should be up?

With a quick glance around the hall to confirm it was empty, he tapped the door handle with his wand, whispering a quick _alohomora._ Instead of unlocking the door, the spell backfired, sending a jolt of pain up his arm.

" _Son of a Hufflepuff!_ " he swore, jerking the hand back and blowing on singed fingers. Hermione had obviously charmed the door against intrusion, and he was not about to attempt breaking the wards of a witch that had not only perpetually bested him in school, but had years of additional practice on top of that.

He was in the middle of contemplating several roundabout methods of gaining access to her suite (one of them included jumping onto her balcony from his), when he heard a shuffling sound from behind the door followed by a cough, and then it was forcibly wrenched open.

" _What?"_ growled a creature that bore only a faint resemblance to the famous witch. Her hair, still a sandy shade of blonde from the beauty potion, formed a writhing halo around her head. Tangled and messy, sporting odd turns and an abundance of knots, it seemed to have a life of its own. With a gulp, Draco remembered a picture of Medusa he had seen in some history textbook; the shape and texture of Granger's hair was eerily similar to that of the Gorgon's.

Large raccoon circles around bloodshot eyes, in addition to a rather pallid complexion, would have completed the ensemble, had the girl not been squinting menacingly in his direction.

It looked like she'd had a hell of a night, and he'd just risen her from her slumber.

"Breakfast?" he offered lightly, extending the box with the peace offering before she bit his head off.

Granger glowered in response, but then her eyes focused on the steaming cup of coffee in one of his hands. She grabbed it hungrily, ripping off the cap and blowing on the liquid before taking a sip. Her whole body relaxed, and she turned around, waving for him to come in with her other hand. He followed her into the suite, placing the rest of the to-go bundle on the coffee table that still housed traces of yesterday's dinner.

"Rough night?" he asked, taking a glance around. Her bed was still made, the covers just lightly ruffled, while several lamps shone brightly despite an abundance of light floating in from the windows. It seemed like they had remained lit all night.

"Couldn't sleep," Hermione admitted, taking a seat and slumping back into the chair with a groan. Taking another sip of the drink, she p`ut it down and started to massage her temples.

Considering they had returned to the hotel half past three, he imagined she must have quite the headache, so he pulled out a little vial from his coat pocket. Granger cocked her head a little to the side when he pushed it towards her.

"Hangover cure," he explained. "But it doubles well as headache relief."

Hermione grabbed it just as eagerly as she had the coffee. "That much of a drinker, huh," she joked, pouring the contents of the vial into her coffee. "Keep a steady supply of this?"

"How else do you think I managed to survive through years of working with muggles? Copious amounts of alcohol," he drawled, tapping his forehead with a finger, as if to signify his own brilliance, drawing a snort from the witch.

There was a short pause while Granger contently sipped on the drink, and then he asked, "Does this happen often? That you can't sleep?"

She shrugged. "It's better at home. But outside of it… yeah. Can't seem to… close my eyes." The last part came out sounding a little lost, like her thoughts were suddenly distant.

He didn't quite know what to respond to that, so he cleared his throat awkwardly and then opted for silence instead. It weighed heavily, and he found himself fidgeting slightly in tact with the ticking of the clock - the same one that had interrupted their almost kiss. Another topic they needed to discuss.

"About yesterday–" he began, but Hermione cut him off instantly. "Does it _look_ like I'm ready to talk about that?" she asked, pointedly grasping several locks of hair in her hand. They rippled in response, trying to break free, increasing the resemblance with a snake's nest.

He couldn't help but comment, "Your hair, Granger, has always had a life of its own."

"Don't I know it." The phrase came as a mix of morbid amusement, irritation and exasperation. "Part of my magic, I suppose."

"And personality," he pointed out. "It's stubborn – just like you."

Hermione gave him a lopsided grin as she reached for the breakfast box. Her hand paused indecisively above it before snatching up a tartine.

"What's the plan today then?"

"Monsieur Lemmen," Hermione told him while taking a delicate bite from the cheese-covered pastry. "A respected scholar in his field; I would have certainly visited him on my previous hunt."

She had already mentioned him once already – yesterday. The original plan had been to see him first and then go to the morgue, but certain distractions had gotten in the way. Like Granger chasing him halfway around the hotel.

"You think he'll remember you?" he asked, putting the image of the fuming Gryffindor out of his head.

Hermione polished off the rest of the tartine before answering. Draco, Slytherin to the core, recognized it for what it was – a stalling tactic.

"It's possible," she finally admitted, dusting the crumbs off her hands. "Something we'll deal with if he does."

That sounded ominously vague. Recalling how she had dealt with the muggle guard last night, Draco couldn't help but think it was on purpose. Hermione didn't give him much time to ponder such ideas, however.

"We'll talk in a bit," she said, rising and dabbing her lips with a napkin. "Thank you for the coffee - that was a lifesaver, but right now I need a good shower and– Oh, _Lord._ "

Hermione had frozen in front of a mirror, her shocked reflection staring back at her.

"I knew it was bad, but this…" she groaned and promptly ran him out of the room, threatening all sorts of deadly repercussions should he ever divulge to anyone that he had seen her in such a state.

Draco had enough brains not to argue. He retreated back to his own suite and spent the next hour practicing all sorts of spells and incantations. He tried to avoid stressing his reserves, sticking to minor charms, but it just wasn't enough. Again, it was like a rabid hunger deep inside of him that refused to be sated. He was in the middle of a spell when Granger barged in, knocking him out of his reverie.

"Playing with your wand, Draco?" she goaded, a sharp contrast to the pale zombie of just an hour ago. The rebellion on her head had been subdued, hair clasped back with a peachy barrette. She smelled fresh from a recent shower, with the subtle traces of a scent he had begun to associate solely with her – aster and foxberries. He felt the urge to use magic quell at her entrance.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you want to watch?" he responded with a sassy smirk, unfazed by the cheekiness, and was rewarded with the sight of her blushing crimson. Choosing to ignore his provocative comment, Hermione slid down into one of the armchairs facing the balcony doors, crossing her feet at the ankles. The sun was at its zenith, and its rays framed the outline of her face in a brilliant glow. When she turned sideways towards him, however, half of it dipped into shadow, the dark and the light playing a wicked game of chase across the contours of her visage.

She looked like innocence and sin.

Draco felt an odd tightness grip his chest. Schooling his own face to reflect none of the turmoil within, he sat down across from her, putting away his wand and preparing for a potentially awkward conversation.

Neither knew where to start, it seemed. He noticed her gnawing on her lip before realizing that he had crossed and uncrossed his legs a total of three times. This room had a different clock, but it ticked the same. _Tick. Tick. Tick._

A party of guests walked by the hallway door, conversation muted. _Tick. Tick._

He cleared his throat. She looked away. He drummed his fingers against the soft material of the armrests.

 _Tick._ And...

"I like you."

There. He blurted it out. And now was the time to squeeze his eyes shut and pretend he was somewhere else. Maybe in Ireland. This was the epitome of embarrassing, and Malfoys did not do embarrassing. Ever. What was she thinking now? Would she laugh? He didn't think so, but in these situations one always assumes the worst.

"Well, I know _that_."

Draco's eyes snapped open. She had snorted, voice full of amusement and… something else. Something akin to the age-old wisdom that grants a woman her power over the opposite sex; the same power that tempted the first man to taste a piece of the forbidden fruit.

"You almost kissed me yesterday, that's why we're here in the first place. So, tell me something I don't know."

Saucy little minx. The kiss hadn't been one-sided; she had made no moves to flee! Two could play at this game, even if it did require a slight risk on his part. "Ok then," he boldly stated, feeling suddenly courageous, "You want to continue what we started."

This drew an even louder snort from the Gryffindor witch. Her eyes danced with mirth as she gazed upon his newfound grumpy expression until he grew irritated and threw up his hands in a symbol of defeat. This just caused her break out in a laugh, breaking the spine of his courage.

"Whatever," he snarled, a redness creeping up his skin, accompanying a vulnerable feeling of self-consciousness. Maybe he'd misread her, after all; maybe she imagined this as some hilarious joke: forcing the pureblood bully of her childhood to admit he had feelings for her. When they were done with this mission, she'd probably share this moment with the Weasel, and they'd both have a good, deep guffaw at his expense down at the pub. Disgusted, he threw his body forward, intent on leaving this room as well as his humiliation behind. He avoided even passing a glance at the bushy-haired witch, confident that he'd just see ridicule and derision in her gaze. Bringing low the Slytherin scion, son of a noble house. Working with her would be impossible, but he'd manage. Just as he'd persevered in the crucible of muggle torment. Fuming, he stomped over to the door, about to make his escape, when he felt a soft touch on his back.

"Draco."

He froze, stilled by the tentative touch. His adam's apple bobbed up and down; he didn't want to turn to face her, afraid of what he might see.

"Don't run, please." It was the way she said it – open and pleading – that gave him the courage to do as she asked. As cautiously as a rabbit in an open field, he turned. She didn't move her hand, and it was still there, extended, palm on his chest now, bridging the divide between them.

One glance at her was all it took to realize what an idiot he was. He'd imagined a bunch of nonsense, got lost in his own head. She wasn't the gloating type, nor did she derive pleasure from demeaning others.

He felt ashamed at that moment then. At his cowardice that made him so willing to jump to conclusions.

"Why are you running?" Her voice betrayed a sudden hurt. "Did you think I was laughing at you? Because I wasn't. I wasn't trying to be callous."

"No, well… yes," he stammered, avoiding her searching gaze. "I'm sorry. I… I've already told you: I'm not good at this. I don't–"

"Neither am I. Come on, come… back. Sit."

He found himself back in same position, facing her, just now sheepishly red-faced. How many times would he fuck up in his life? Her next words interrupted his self-flagellating inner monologue.

"As I've said," Hermione stated, drawing herself up in the chair. "I wasn't laughing at you. Well, you just… you said 'I like you', which sounds so adolescent, although it was very sweet, and then scrunched up your face like you were waiting for me to… to hit or something! I just laughed, because it reminded me of school, and it was funny. I'm sorry."

Great. Now she was acting contrite.

"Don't apologize, Granger," he bit out. "I shouldn't have ran." He took a deep breath, because he wanted to be honest with this woman. "I just reacted the way I did because I was… nervous, I guess. I don't really know how to act, because I've never been in… well… any kind of real–"

"Relationship?" A rueful smile tugged at the edges of her lips when he shook his head in agreement, squirming a little. "Me neither."

He couldn't contain his surprise at that bit of news. "What? I thought you and the We– Weasley, I mean, I thought you two were-"

She cut him off with a swipe of her hand, "No. He wanted to, but I… I wasn't ready at the time." He noticed her gaze wavered at these words; she was looking somewhere far off.

"And later? You're what? 21? And you've never been involved with anyone?"

Pursing her lips, she pointed out, "By your own admission, neither have you."

"But I was stuck working in that abysmal muggle shack all the time! I couldn't even get a single day off, not that most witches would look upon my past with a yearning."

"Most witches don't know you. And I had work too. There were so many things to do after the war, I simply couldn't justify wasting my time on personal… flings."

He had a distinct feeling she was lying, but decided not to push the issue. "Ok then," he concluded with amiableness, "so both of us are new to this… thing between us."

"Look, Draco," she said, primly folding her hands on her knees. "I like you too; more importantly, I feel safe with you. Yesterday… I was part of that moment, a willing contributor. Had we kissed… I don't know what would have happened, but right now, we have a job to do, and we can't afford any distractions. Let's focus on that."

Draco shifted and was about to argue when she continued, "I'm not saying we forget anything, but… let's not force things."

"Not force things," he repeated slowly, as if tasting the words in his mouth. She looked expectantly at him, waiting for his answer. He thought she was holding her breath, and, for some reason, his vision focused on her lips, as red as coral. He didn't have the heart to deny her. Not after she admitted to having feelings too! _She said she felt safe with him!_ It was only the fact that he was a Malfoy that kept him from jumping up with joy and doing a little happy dance. Malfoys behaved with dignity, it was known, and thus he tried to reply with as much as he could muster.

"I can do that." She brightened instantly at his reply, cheeks dimpling in a lovely smile, lighting up the room like the brightest _lumos._

"Then let's get going," she said. "We have a virus to cure."

* * *

 **Hi!**


	21. The Cloud Princess

Draco argued and pouted. He begged and he bartered. Tried to distract her with dirty tricks and nefarious Slytherin tactics. In the end, none of it worked. Hermione just made a sappy face, and told him with downcast eyes that she'd never been to the Paris Metro and she really, _really_ wanted to go. So, please, could he find it in his Slytherin heart to–

It worked like a charm.

"Filthy, fucking muggles," he grumbled as they were jostled around in the rush hour crowd. He tried to do it quietly, but she heard him. It made her a little disheartened that his hatred for non-magical people burned just as strong as when they had been in school. Possibly, even more. She blamed the ministry. Forcing someone to work a minimum wage job in the foodservice industry was not a viable way to teach compassion.

The crowd grew thicker, threatening to separate them. Impulsively, she reached out for his hand, and felt his fingers curl around hers in a steady grip. He pulled her close, walking a little ahead to part the crowd like an icebreaker parts thick arctic sheets.

She also noticed that he stopped grumbling.

They disembarked at the Paris Saint-Lazare Station, switching over to the teal line, and took it all the way to its near end, hopping out at Basilique de Saint-Denis. The medieval abbey was just a short walk south of the station. Muggles had no idea that the imposing gothic cathedral in the middle of a Parisian suburb actually housed a portway to one of the city's magical enclaves. Researchers, alchemists, blacksmiths, wandmakers, broomkeepers and all sorts of magical craftsmen resided in the giant caverns below. There, they built quirky shops and laboratories – places where they could experiment trying to turn lead into gold or breed fluffy dragons. It was subsidized, in part, by the French Ministry, as the air in the caverns possessed some mysterious properties that made the area conductive to magical works.

It also made the area very tourist-heavy, and Hermione carefully checked that her disguise was in order. Hair, eyes, skin; check. Boobs, check. No glamour charms; magic could always be detected. Still, it was hard to imagine that a passerby would recognize her, as she hardly looked like the Hermione Granger from the papers now.

Even Draco had to look twice the first time he saw her looking like this. Recalling that moment, she had to stifle a small snicker, as images of the fleeing blond dashed through her mind. _Boys and boobs._ What could you do?

Still, thinking about him couldn't help but bring up the notion of how quickly this relationship was progressing. Not that she had any to compare it with.

That's just how her life turned out. Instead of going out on dates and giggling with girlfriends, deciding which boy was the cutest, she had to fight a war. Not that she really wanted to giggle or spend time ogling clothes in fashion mags, it's just that… the option to do that would have been nice.

C'est la vie, as they say.

Dwelling on this was a downer, and she was glad when they concluded their brisk walk at the gates of the cathedral.

Entering the medieval structure was like walking into a whole new world – the sounds of the street became hushed, and a centuries-old weight settled upon her shoulders. It was the burden of generations that had come before to ease their troubled minds from sin; to seek salvation in the face of darkness.

Tiny motes floated upon rays of scattered light that filtered in through the clerestory stained-glass windows. Above, a grand vaulted ceiling rested in shadow. Hermione walked slowly between the pews towards the chancel, reveling in the feeling of history surrounding her. What mysteries were concealed by these walls? What events did they witness? And what did the people buried here have to hide?

This wasn't just a church, after all: it was the familial necropolis for over a millennia of French royalty. More than 60 tombs were laid in the crypt below, hosting the bodies of kings and queens, princes and princesses, dukes and duchesses. Seeing this firsthand was like opening an old tome, dusty and forgotten, and delving into its sacred pages.

Behind her, Draco cleared his throat. She sighed and turned around. He was right: they didn't come to sightsee. Maybe later, when this case was over; when Dolohov, or whoever was spreading the virus, was dead.

Draco took the lead, walking towards the east end of the cathedral. There, in between two alcoves, was a concealed passageway. Narrow, it permitted only one person at a time to pass; a defensive strategy from the middle ages aimed at hindering the advance of any attacking forces. Its well-worn steps spiraled down into murky depths. Draco walked first; apprehensively, she followed.

Gloom displaced light before giving way to darkness. She felt its slimy touch glide over her skin, causing goosebumps to rise and fall in waxing waves. Her heart trembled, beating an erratic rhythm into her chest. She knew this was mostly the effects of layered enchantments that protected the magical domain from muggles, but, still, this place, this darkness – it made her uneasy. The stone walls were edging closer, threatening to suffocate her in an icy embrace; she felt like she was venturing into the gaping maw of some wild beast that would close it jaws around her, burying her from the world. Impulsively, she reached forward to touch Draco's shoulder. His skin was cold, but its mere presence was enough to warm her, chasing away any irrational fears. " _Lumos,_ " she heard him mutter, lighting the path ahead.

After what seemed an eternity the passageway broadened, gradually lightening as torch-holding scones appeared on the walls. The fire in them was smokeless, burning a vivid blue, reminding her of her own flames, and of a similar darkness she had banished so many years ago. A darkness she burned away with fire, rescuing her friends from the strangling vines of a devilish plant.

Finally, the steps evened out, leading them to a broad room, lit by a dozen torches. The way forward was blocked by a monolithic slab of stone, engraved with the fleur-de-lis. They approached it cautiously, wands at the ready. Hermione knew the incantation that would grant them access to the caverns within; it had been in one of the many books she read.

A whisper of a spell, and the stone slab shuddered; slowly, with the grating sounds of rock scraping against rock, it rose, disappearing into a recess in the wall above. Draco passed first through the yawning opening; Hermione was just a step behind. Her companion's tall form was blocking off her vision, but then he moved, and, gasping, she walked onto an edge of a landing jutting out into a sea of light and darkness.

They had exited onto part of a stone walkway that looped around the entire cavern. There were similar walkways both above and below them, covering the steep walls like rungs in a ladder. From the looks of it, they were somewhere in the middle: hundreds of feet off the ground, but not yet close to the ceiling. From this vantage point, Hermione was able to observe the entire span of the underground enclosure.

Several miles in diameter, it basked in the light of several giant sun-like lanterns, seconded by a soft luminescent glow from wall-hugging fungi that covered the bedrock formations around them like carvings on wood. Stalactites, sharp as jagged teeth, hung from above, sometimes meeting their floor-based cousins and forming grandiose columns. Over many years, they had been hollowed out, and now served as homes or workshops to all sorts of magical creatures. Miles of rope and wood were stretched between them – footpaths to those who were unable to fly.

For flight was a common method of travel here. A diverse assortment of transport clogged the aerial highways: brooms and magic carpets flitted between colorful hot air balloons and gondolas; hippogriffs beat their mighty wings ferrying riders to and from designated transit stations; a mighty ship, sails at half-mast, floated gracefully towards the far end of the cavern, where a huge magical portal shimmered with pearly light.

" _The Cloud Princess,"_ Draco informed her, gazing up at the ship. "It's rumored that the levitation spells imbued into her frame were cast by Archimedes himself. She circumnavigates the world every few months. The cost of even a single ticket is… well, it's not measured in galleons."

"Have you ever been aboard?" Hermione asked with envy. There were so many elements of this world – like a ship that floated on clouds – that she hadn't yet been able to experience. In times of weakness, she sometimes wished she had been born to a pair of magical parents. Her life would have been so much easier then. Such thoughts quickly passed, however, leaving shame in their wake. She hadn't won a war to be tormented by regrets, and she was proud of who she was. Besides, her friends were a direct result of her heritage, and she could not imagine a world where she, Harry and Ron would have passed in separate ways.

"No," Draco, unaware of her thoughts, answered almost whimsically. "You need more than money to book a cabin on that vessel. I suppose the Malfoy name had sufficient connections in the past, but my father was always too preoccupied with… other issues."

Like trying to kick muggleborns out of his precious magical world, Hermione thought to herself, but didn't say anything out loud. Lucius was dead, and there was no reason to stir the wounds of the past.

"And your mother?" she prompted, steering the conversation away from the dead Malfoy patriarch.

"Mother had no time for idleness, either. She was always busy with one thing or another. But the pinnacle of her efforts… Oh, Granger, the balls she hosted! Several times a year, all of high society would gather at the Manor to celebrate the festivities! I never appreciated any of it, of course; I just wanted to escape and fly on a broom with the other kids. But she… she truly had a talent. It wasn't just organizing or planning, she learned to do _everything_ for her soirees: she could cook, knit, dance; she was fluent in seven languages as well as the customs of a dozen cultures. But the most impressive aspect was her charmwork. I imagine she could have taught the class at Hogwarts–"

Draco was still looking at the _Princess_ , but Hermione had turned her gaze away, resting it instead on young man by her side. His eyes sparkled as he recounted his mother's achievements. It was this moment that, in all the time they had been together, he seemed the most human. This was just a boy missing his mum, because, as far as she knew, Narcissa did not reside at the Manor.

"Where is she?" Hermione asked, tugging Draco back to the present.

"She couldn't stay in our home," he replied bitterly. "Not after everything that had happened there, and not after father passed. She was ordered to remain, the ministry placed her on house arrest, but…" He shook his head. "She would have died there."

"So what did you do?"

Draco paused; it seemed that a battle of wills was occurring within his mind. Finally, one side relented, and he answered honestly, "We got her out of the country. Greased some wheels, paid the right people. She travels sometimes, but usually stays in a small property we own near the French-Italian border–"

A wave of warmth crested in Hermione's soul. The fact that he trusted her enough to disclose the location of his mother – the only other person who even remotely cared for him – spoke volumes. She had to swallow an unexpected lump in her throat, and then quickly tuned back to what Draco was saying.

"–and the Giardini Botanical Gardens are just a short stroll away… I tell you, Granger, Professor Sprout would have died of envy seeing the type of flora that local witches grow there! Mother writes me every week, sharing her own efforts with cultivating–"

"You don't see her?"

His face turned gray, and shoulders slumped. "No. Haven't in years. She can't return because of the threat of arrest, and I couldn't break my probation to go visit her."

"I'm sorry, Draco," Hermione said in small voice, and then impulsively reached out to hug him. She held him close, listening to his shuddering breaths.

"It's not too bad," he sniffed, pulling back after a bit. "If things ever got really tough, I could always run to her."

"How so?"

Draco grinned mischievously, the previous nostalgia of their conversation evaporating like morning dew under a summer sun. He reached for his throat and made a small gesture with his fingers. An intricately woven silver chain shimmered into existence around his neck. He pulled at one end, tugging it out until he could hold what it carried: a ring of black onyx with an emerald 'M' in the center.

"Portkey," he whispered conspiratorially. "My mother has one just like it. They're made of one stone, meaning that–"

"They're linked together," Hermione guessed in similarly hushed tones. "One takes you to the other."

"Exactly. It can only be used once, though."

"You've never thought of doing that? Running away to join her?"

"I have," he admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. "But the Manor… England... that is my home, and it will forever be so, even if I'm not wanted anymore. I will not be chased away."

She reached out to squeeze his hand and said, "I'm glad you stayed." They stood like that for a moment, lost in their thoughts, until a shrill cry from an ascending Pegasus tore them back to reality.

Hermione took one last glance at the _Princess_ (the ship's bow was disappearing into the portal) before tugging Draco along the stone pathway. It was wide enough for several people (or goblins, gnomes, dwarfs, etc.) to pass side by side, but lacked any sort of railing. The reason behind such a baffling design was lost on Hermione, because who it their right mind enjoys walking on the edge of a cliff? The drop below looked to be at least several hundred feet deep.

Hermione had never been fond of heights, so she hugged the wall as closely as possible. Draco, realizing the reason behind her nervousness, put himself between her and the abyss; she gave him a grateful smile in return.

He had become so much more considerate since school. And polite. And handsome, although she'd call it pretty. His shoulders had broadened, and–

Hermione mentally slapped herself. Her appraisal could wait until after their mission was over.

They walked along the path in silence for some time, accompanied only by the sounds of gravel crunching under their feet. Signposts, hammered down into rock, pointed towards the nearest system of lifts.

The researcher Hermione wanted to see lived on the bottom level, and the lifts were the easiest way of descent. They were built into the bedrock of the cavern, placed about every half-mile or so. The closest one was just a little away.

Before reaching it, however, they came upon a group of inebriated dwarfs. Reeking of ale, the bearded fellows had gathered on the edge, shouting slurs and obscenities to a group of goblins several levels below. The goblins were responding with high-pitched squeals, rude gestures, and empty bottles. Fortunately, their aim was as good their looks. Draco and Hermione ducked by, unwilling to interrupt the traditional flirting customs of the two races.

They had almost arrived at their lift when Draco suddenly asked, "You like ships, don't you, Granger?"

"I do," she admitted, glad for a conversation that would allow her mind to stray from issues like their exact elevation and how long it would take for a body to reach the ground. "How did you know?"

"Your house. The Turner paintings, some of the decorations. They're all marine-themed. You even have a pair of pearl-capped shell earclips in your jewelry box."

She almost stumbled. "And just how exactly would you know that?!"

He threw her a sly grin. "I took a little peek, while you were running around like a chicken with its head cut off packing all your things for our trip."

"You _do_ know you're standing on the edge of a cliff," she growled, sending him her most menacing scowl.

The git was entirely unperturbed. "You wouldn't push me," he declared. "You like me too much."

" _I do not!_ "

His retort was instant and triumphant, "That's not what you said this morning!"

She harrumphed, crossed her arms in a profound display of annoyance, and glared at this blond-haired prat that had the audacity to admit of going through her things but lacked the manners to act scared when she threatened him.

Ignoring the looks of death she was sending him, he started whistling some obnoxious tune and skipped away.

She was seriously considering whether or not he would survive the fall should she give him a little nudge, when the pathway broadened to a spacious landing. Three shafts were cut into the rock; two were empty, one had a cabin waiting.

The lifts were robust constructions of brass and other alloys, powered by pressurized pipes of blistering steam. By pulling a system of levers inside the cabin, a passenger could direct it to different levels. They chose the bottom one, and the lift plummeted with a "wumpth". Suppressing a girly yelp, Hermione grabbed onto to the man next to her, clutching his arms tightly. Thankfully, the rapid descent only lasted several seconds, and then the cabin slowed, gradually coming to a complete stop. A sharp ' _ting_ ' announced their arrival.

The ground floor of the cavern was split into evenly divided sectors – industrial, commercial, and residential. Hermione led the way, having memorized the route in advance. Avoiding a caravan of camels with goods and several street merchants peddling their wares, she turned onto a series of quiet streets, took two left turns and stopped in front of a giant, hollowed-out, two-story mushroom – the researcher's residence.

Three brightly-colored steps led onto a wide porch with a long linked chain hanging adjacent to the entrance. Pulling it made a pair of silver bells softly jingle from above. Hermione and Draco had to use it twice until a scurry of footsteps from behind the door announced the owner's approach.

"Un moment, s'il vous plait!" came through the door, and then it opened to reveal a small wiry man with wisps of gray hair and a pair of spectacles through which he peered at Hermione.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Lemmen," she began, "Je m'appelle–"

"Mademoiselle Granger!" he exclaimed with delight. "But of course! Pardon-moi, I did not recognize you at first!"

So she had been here before. She had been confident in that hypothesis, but now it had turned into fact. Still, Hermione felt a brief flash of irritation that her disguise had been pierced so quickly. She met Draco's eyes for a brief moment, and he returned a quick, tight nod. He knew what to do when they were finished here.

"I was so worried when I heard of your troubles," Lemmen said after an exchange of introductions between the two men. His english was much better than Fleur's. "I even contacted your Ministry and spoke to an auror–"

Hermione froze. Neither Harry nor Ron ever mentioned following her trail to France. The investigation into her disappearance had always been contained to England. But then that would mean...

She held that thought and focused on what Lemmen was saying.

"-but do come in!"

Lemmen led them to a cozy little sitting room and clapped his hands, calling out for a house-elf.

"Tea?" he inquired. They both nodded, and the squat little creature was sent away with meticulous instructions.

"You are here, I assume, for the data, Ms. Granger?" he asked, mentioning for them to have a seat.

"I am," she confirmed, taking an educated guess that what he was referring to was virus-related. "But, first, may I inquire as to why you contacted the Auror Department? Not that I'm not grateful – merely curious."

"Why, because I thought I could help," Lemmen answered, looking a little perplexed. "The papers that heralded your disappearance said no one had seen you since spring, and since you visited me in early June, I thought I should share that information. I owled your Auror Department and later spoke with one of their representatives via floo."

Sitting up a little straighter, Draco asked, "Can you recall with whom you spoke?"

Lemmen shook his head. "I apologize. It was half a year ago… the name escapes me."

"But it wasn't Harry Potter or Ronald Weasley?" Hermione clarified.

"Non. That I would have remembered. No… the auror that contacted me had brown hair, blue eyes… eh... very round cheeks…"

Nostrils flaring, Hermione mentally flipped through a registry of the ministry's aurors and guessed, "Rawlings?"

Lemmen perked up. "Oui," he said. "Rawlings, his name was. I relayed to him that you had visited me, and he thanked me. That is all I know.

Hermione pursed her lips, feeling she had just grasped the thread that could unravel this whole conspiracy. Because either Rawlings was completely fucking incompetent or he had purposefully concealed information of her whereabouts. She needed to text this development to Harry as soon as possible. Sadly, it was impossible to do right away, as cell phones – and all kinds of muggle technology – behaved rather unpredictably in the presence of concentrated magic. After all, magic violated the very principles of physics upon which electronics were founded. She supposed that was why Arthur Weasley – or any other wizard – had never been able to master technological devices. They simply didn't work in magical areas and were prone to explosions.

Glancing curiously between his two guests, Lemmen asked, "I'm sorry, should I have not reached out to the authorities?

Hermione allayed his suspicions with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Oh, no, it's nothing it at all. Thank you for doing that on my behalf." Then, quickly changing the subject, she asked, "You mentioned you had data to share with me?"

"I do. The work has been fascinating, I must admit, if purely theoretical. Once again, let me tell you how glad I am that you chose to bring it to me."

"Your name is very well regarded, Monsieur," Hermione complimented, making the elderly man beam through his spectacles.

"Thank you," he answered modestly. "Allow me several minutes to retrieve it. I'll be back shortly." Lemmen rose and exited the room. Draco looked like he was about to ask Hermione what she thought about Rawlings, when the house-elf reappeared, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. It handed them out with a flourish, placing half a dozen lemon wedges on a plate in the middle. Hermione thanked the elf with a smile; it squeaked, coloring a deep burgundy, and stammered out something incomprehensible in French before disappearing with a pop.

Hermione sighed, mixing in some sugar into her tea. House-elves were conditioned into a life of servitude from their very births… by other house-elves. It was a vicious cycle, one she was afraid she would never break. Even the most open-minded members of the wizarding community – those that respected individual rights – treated the little elves as servants, at best.

Draco, guessing the direction her thoughts had taken, sent her a smirk over his own teacup. She was about to give him a piece of her mind, when Lemmen returned, carrying several rolls of parchment.

"I have been attempting to send you this information for quite some time now," he told the witch. "Sadly, none of my owls were able to locate you."

"A pity, monsieur," Hermione replied. "That would have greatly sped up the Auror Department's work."

Their host gave a polite laugh and placed the papers in his hands on the table, a careful ways away from the tea tray.

"As you requested in your summer visit, Ms. Granger," he said, popping a lemon wedge into his mouth, "I have focused my analysis on the second part of the spell."

"The second part of the virus?"

"Yes. As you know, the primary network of spells that occupies a victim's mind is incomplete – it requires an additional layer that would bridge the missing connections, allowing the curse to operate at its full capacity.

"And have you reached any conclusions?" Hermione asked impatiently.

"Many. Most are just hypotheses at this point, as all of the work is theoretical in nature. There isn't a wizard alive capable of such minute, intricate and powerful spellwork–" Draco rubbed a spot on his arm at these words "–Of one discovery, however, I am certain. The second part of the spell would have to be grown organically."

Hermione frowned. "It couldn't be cast by hand?"

"No. It would have to be tailored specifically to existing receptors in this host's mind as well as the original infection, making it infinitely more complex. Think of it as a pear in a bottle. You can't place a fully matured pear inside; you place it in when it is just a bud, and then let it grow. The same principle applies here."

"Except, in this case, magic would replace the nutrients it needs to grow?" Hermione asked.

Lemmen nodded appreciatively at her quick deduction and answered, "Exactly. Just as a pear requires sunlight and water to flourish, this second part – the "key" that opens the "lock" if you will – would need to be placed in a magically-saturated environment to develop. It would then slowly siphon off magic, until it evolved into a form capable of uniting with the original curse."

"In what sort of container would this thing grow then?" Draco piped up.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy, it's difficult to answer that question, because we're really in uncharted waters here. Magic of this magnitude is leagues above anything that exists today. But, historically, spells have been housed in a variety of objects; crystals and precious stones being the most popular for the stability they provide. But many things may be used. Some wizards prefer family heirlooms, for example, and create artifacts out of them."

Hermione instantly thought of Voldemort and his horcruxes. Did he apply similar reasoning in this case?

"So," Draco said, trying to organize this new information, "this second part of the curse could be placed in almost anything near a magical field and it would grow by itself?"

"Provided it had access to magic, yes." Lemmen replied, taking a sip of his tea.

The conversation continued for some time after that, and Draco quickly discovered that he was unable to follow. Hermione and Lemmen spoke in technical lingo, using terms and jargon he simply did not know. They delved deep into the well of magical analysis, discussing obscure and complicated theorems that could explain the curse's behavior.

He just sat quietly, sipping tea that the elf would refresh, and watched Hermione speak, her eyes full of fire. She truly was brilliant – able to contend with this grizzled researcher. He felt another pang of guilt over how he had berated her in school and wondered what heights this girl could have reached had she been allowed to prosper?

After a little while, he extracted his wand and began practicing some minor spells. Magic coursed through his body, causing pleasant tingles to erupt all over. It was refreshingly sweet, making him feel like a real wizard again, something he had been denied for years.

So engrossed was he in this act, that Hermione had to stomp his foot three times to get his attention. This was the signal that she had concluded her conversation. They had nothing more to gain here.

"Oh, err," he jumped up awkwardly, still holding the wand in his hand. His body protested at the abrupt end to his spellcasting. It needed more. Suppressing that feeling with a grunt, Draco noticed that Hermione had picked the moment perfectly: both Lemmen and his house-elf were in the room.

"Excuse me, monsieur," he said, walking in a direction that would force the researcher to turn away from Hermione. "Could you point me in the direction of the loo–"

He didn't finish that sentence, because the second Lemmen lost sight of Hermione, she withdrew her own wand and stunned him. Draco's stupefy hit the house-elf not one moment later.

"Well," the witch by his side said, standing up, "nice of you to join me, Malfoy."

Draco flinched at the irritation in her tone. "Sorry," he offered, feeling guilty. "Distracted a little."

Hermione just sighed and approached the researcher, whose form was now slumped, eyes glazed over.

"Je suis tres desole," she whispered, leaning forward. "If it is any consolation, I am very proficient in memory charms. _Obliviate!_ "

She repeated the process on the house-elf, and then they cleaned up the room, removing any trace of their presence.

When Monsieur Lemmen awoke, he was a little surprised he had taken a midday nap. Perhaps he was getting old, he thought, walking up to his study. Everything looked pristine, and he sat down to read over his notes. He wondered where the Granger girl was, and whether she had been found. The work she had shared with him was fascinating. Perhaps he should try sending her another owl…

* * *

 **I'm gonna take a little moment here and scribble down some of my thoughts. When I posted the first chapter of this story, I had only 5 thousand words written and only a vague idea of the events that would shape it. I knew the beginning, had some understanding of how everything would end, and almost nothing in-between. Many things came to me spur-of-the-moment, as I wrote this chapter by chapter.**

 **Therefore, I'm very pleased to say that we're entering the final stretch. Not the end, no, there's still a way to go, but the progression of events that leads to the finale is now clear in my mind. I just have to write it out, heh.**

 **Anyways, I just thought I'd share that exciting news and also thank my reviewers. You guys are amazing; reading your comments is always motivating and makes me feel all warm and giddy inside.**

 **Merci beaucoup!**


	22. Martha Berkins

**_One day earlier, London..._**

The Auror Department took up the entire 3'rd floor of the Ministry. This was sufficiently high to deter any straggling visitors that perpetually swarmed the Ministry with complaints or petitions, but low enough to permit Aurors quick access to the entry floor should direct methods of travel – like apparition or floo – become unusable. In fact, only this floor and the Minister's office allowed for such alternative means of transportation; the rest of the Ministry was warded tightly against outside access, and everyone had to enter it the way one usually enters buildings – through the foyer.

These were all somewhat recent developments, as the whole Ministry had been redesigned after the war. This included moving the Auror department down from the 8'th floor to the 3'rd and even installing what everyone called the 'stable' – a wide loading bay with a several dozen brooms should the aurors ever need them.

The stable circled around the length of the floor, allowing for easy access from the interior areas. For the errant ministry visitor, those began in the center, where they would exit the system of lifts that cut through the ministry carrying passengers much like a circulatory system ferries blood across a body. For this floor, the lifts exited onto a large reception area, where requests could be logged by filling out one of many forms. Further publicly-accessible areas were down in the East Wing.

The West Wing housed everything else: lock-up, evidence storage, a small owlery, interrogation rooms, training areas, and, of course, the bullpen.

The bullpen was a wide, open space filled with cubicles and haphazardly placed desks: workspaces for the majority of aurors. Ringing the room were a number of private offices delegated to ongoing investigations as well as the Auror command and control structure, including offices for the Head Auror and his deputy.

Harry and Ron's desks were both in the bullpen with the other auror's; they also had access to several of the private rooms, where the two young men were part of a team that was leading the inquiry into Hermione's disappearance. That investigation was still in progress, as they had concealed all news of recent events.

Technically, this could be called impeding an official investigation and obstruction of justice, but with the loyalties of their colleagues under question, this was the only viable path forward for the moment.

Therefore, Hermione was still missing to the rest of the world, while Harry, Ron and Ginny were trying to solve the ministry angle of the conspiracy. Devoting all of their time to this mission, however, was impossible. Every auror had several concurrent cases running open at a given moment, and dropping them would arouse suspicion.

Still, their current positions of employment provided them with several options to follow. One of them was uncovering why the Muggle Crimes Unit was effectively dissolved after the war. This unit was separate from the Auror Department, just one more branch under the wide umbrella of MLE – Magical Law Enforcement. According to the protocols Harry and Ron had dug up, the people working in it usually handled small issues like pranks and mischief (one of the most famous cases being a wizard spelling toilets to regurgitate their contents). If they ever stumbled onto evidence of a truly heinous crime – the murder or torture of a muggle at the hands of a witch or wizard – they would pass it on to the Auror Department, which would then open its own investigation.

That hadn't happened in years, because the Muggle Crimes Unit now employed only two people, neither of which could be called competent in any sense of the word. Tracking down almost everyone else who had worked there had proved to be problematic. Records requests on personnel files were notoriously slow to process, and that was even if you had authorization for them. Without disclosing the reasons why they needed this information, neither Harry nor Ron were capable of getting it.

Fortunately, there was one person they knew who had actually worked at the MCU before it was gutted. That person was Rawlings.

Gus Rawlings was a pudgy-faced man with small, beady eyes and a mop of oily brown hair on top his head. He was the most junior auror in the department despite being in his mid-30's; he had transferred in just over a year ago. His desk was in one of the corners of the room, beneath a wide poster board that held the faces of wanted criminals, many of them Death Eaters that had fled after the final battle and were still at large.

As he walked towards Rawlings' desk, Ron stared into the malevolent scowls of individuals he had fought against in the war: Yaxley, Dolohov, Greyback, Rockwood, and a number of mid- and lower-tier Death Eaters. All of them on the run, hiding out. They had successfully used the chaos after the final battle to escape. Now, some of them had returned – carrying with them the seeds of a war everyone thought was over.

"Rawlings!" he greeted the older auror with as much cheerfulness as he could muster. It came out sounding a little forced.

The man sitting at the desk just grunted in response. Ron hadn't expected an amiable conversation – they didn't particularly like each other, and Rawlings was probably still pissed about Ginny hexing him several weeks ago. Of course, that would have never happened had he not been a misogynistic cunt, but then you have what you have.

"What did you need, Weasley?" Rawlings said, rapping his knuckles against his desk with impatience.

"Came across some details on one of my cases," Ron stuck to a plausible story. "They lead to the muggle world – into MCU's jurisdiction."

"So go bother MCU," the seated wizard shot back.

"They're not in at the moment, something about staffing. You used to work there, right?"

"Before I transferred here."

"You know why they cut everyone from the department?"

Something flitted across the older wizard's face. Ron didn't catch the look – he was tired after missing out on several days of sleep. The three of them – Ron, Harry and Ginny – had spent their nights apparating around the country to various city morgues and testing corpses for traces of the virus. So far, there had been an abundance of hits, and they had taken samples to Dr. Frackenburger for analysis. The professor was hopeful he could pinpoint the moment of infection, allowing them to form a timeline of events for the victims. By cross-referencing the location and time of infection, maybe they could detect a pattern that would lead to the perpetrator's disposition.

So Ron just noticed Rawlings frown for a second and then answer, "As far as I know, there weren't enough cases to justify all the funds."

"No cases, huh?" Ron clarified. "That calm the muggle world?"

"As far as I know," Rawlings repeated, glowering at the freckled wizard.

Ron considered that moment. No cases was bullshit – he knew that now. Muggles were dying for quite some time now, falling victim to You-Know-Who's virus. He felt a tingle of suspicion in his spine: something didn't add up to what Rawlings was saying. Unless Rawlings knew nothing about them? So many questions. He needed to ask someone else who had worked in MCU… if he could find them.

Drumming a beat against the side wall of Rawlings's cubicle with his fingers, he asked, "So then, you still have any contacts from your time over there? Anyone I can ask?"

Rawlings pivoted his full form towards Ron and crossed his hands across his chest. "How would an old MCU contact help with a current case?"

Ron scratched his chin; he needed to shave. "Just answer the question, Rawlings!" he snapped. "I'm following a lead. Unless you're too busy with the Berkins case."

Rawlings looked like he was about to swear.

Martha Berkins was a 86-year-old witch who haunted the Auror Department. Not in the direct sense (she wasn't a ghost), but the Auror Department had become something of a monthly pilgrimage for her ever since her husband died thirteen years ago. Every visit, she sported a variety of complaints: a poltergeist in her shed, the neighborhood children setting fire to her gnome decorations, inappropriate displays of affection by young couples in Diagon Alley, _The Prophet_ slandering her late husband, etc, etc.

The jewel of these mostly baseless accusations occurred three years ago, when Martha had come in insisting that someone had broken into her home, gone through her knickers drawer and stolen her favorite pair.

Agin Kort, the Head Auror, had the unlucky fortune to be passing nearby when Martha was recounting this story to the bored clerks in the reception area. His broad form was widely recognized, and Martha latched onto it like a leech, refusing to let go until the Auror Department did something to rectify this despicable situation perpetrated by the vicious knickers nicker.

Desperate to rid himself of her nagging, Head Auror Kort had yelled out the names of two of his subordinates, ordering them to escort the witch back to her house and not return until they had closed the case – one way or the other.

Several hours later, both aurors returned detailing how they had searched the musty old home top to bottom finding no signs of a break-in or of the cursed missing knickers. This may have continued for an indeterminate amount of time, but luckily for the aurors, Ms. Berkins felt an urge to visit the loo. There, she discovered that the allegedly stolen underwear was actually on her own person – she had accidentally put on two pairs in the morning and forgot.

Basically, Martha Berkins was a batty old woman that had been stopped being taken seriously decades ago. The past year she had been coming in with the same complaint: someone was breaking into her home (again), stealing food from the pantry and toilet paper from her bathroom.

The Department was obligated to investigate every complaint, so this case (dubbed 'the toilet paper investigation') was promptly issued to the most junior auror – Rawlings, who was forced to endure her droning whenever she returned.

Needless to say, it was a bit joke to everyone except Rawlings.

" _No-I-don't-have-anything-for-you-is-that-all?!,"_ he ground out, his face turning into spectacular shade of boiled lobster. The vein on his temple was throbbing so hard that Ron was afraid it was about to burst.

"Alrighty, then," he said cheerfully. "Always a pleasure, Rawlings!"

The other wizard returned his farewell by wishing for him to go screw a herd of belligerent hippogriffs, which made Ron chuckle on the way back to his own desk. It didn't take long for the mirth to fall off his lips, however, as he pondered the inconsistencies in what Rawlings had told him. And he hadn't kept up with any of his buddies from MCU? Yeah, right.

No matter, though: he could get the names of MCU personnel from the records department… even if it did mean borrowing Harry's cloak. Something also had to be done about all the financial documents Hermione had stolen and stashed in her house. So far, none of them had been able to parse the legions of numbers within those files – they were dead stuck, and a team of forensic accountant was what they needed. But who could you trust?

Ron, caught up in these thoughts, didn't see Rawlings suspiciously glaring at his back. He didn't notice how the other auror glanced around the bullpen and then quickly quilled a small note. When Ron was seated back at his desk and not paying any attention to the man he had just spoken with, Rawlings got up and walked over the owlery – just another auror doing his job –, and then sent his missive to an unknown destination.

* * *

 **Had such an unpleasant case of writer's block with this one that I penned the start to another story. Go check it out :D**

 **As always, a deep thank you to my dear reviewers.**


	23. The Meeting on the Hill

The village had seen better times. Half the shops and businesses on its dusty main street were boarded up, and the rest were dressed up in coats of chipped paint, slowly yielding to the elements. Hopelessness hung in the air; the few people out scurried like rats, hugging the sides of the street, throwing furtive glances over their shoulders.

Had this been a muggle village, one might have guessed that the main employer had moved out, taking all the jobs away. It happens sometimes, and when it does, the community in question dies a slow, agonising death, as some people, too stubborn to leave, try to hold on to the remains of their lives.

But this wasn't a muggle village, and the reasons behind its collapse had nothing to do with a failing local economy.

This small rural retreat had been the location of several battles during the past two decades. The evidence could be seen in the charred remains of several huts and a small bakery. It had been lively once and served the most delicious croissants. Now, it was a ruin that reeked of dark magic.

That was a common smell in this place. The remnants of old battle spells and incantations lingered in places, reminding the living of those who had passed. It wasn't a good feeling, and most people could withstand it for only so long. Thus, they left, and as they did, the once proud town withered away.

Only one place prospered despite, or, more accurately, because of such misery: the cemetery.

It had collected a generous bounty over the years and now served as the final resting place to both identified and unidentified Order members, Death Eaters, mercenaries who had fought for both sides, and various locals caught in the crossfire.

It was placed on a hill overlooking the village, with a small chapel that offered a place of contemplation and prayer for any soul in need. These days, it was usually empty; no one came here anymore.

Today, however, was different.

A man was pacing rapidly between the tombstones. At times, his movements were fluid, as smooth as a mountain brook flowing downhill. Other moments, he would jerk and twitch, his eyes darting around the cemetery with a touch of madness. It was cold; every breath from his mouth condensed into a cloud of vapor that hovered like a layer of smog over a factory.

His face was gaunt and lined with hatred. A thick wool cloak hung off his shoulders, unclasped, so that a white sheet of gauze, tinged with red, could be seen wrapped around one of his shoulders.

He paused when he heard the tell-tale sound of apparition and then swiveled to meet the newcomer – a man dressed in expensive robes with a face that was hidden in the depths of a hood.

"Hello, _brother,_ " the first man sneered, spitting out the last word with disgust. "Why did you summon me here? What's so important?"

The second man straightened his robes and cooly responded, "Well, aren't you touchy today, Dolohov. What's the matter: is the space in that silly head of yours finally running out?"

Dolohov shook his body like a dog shaking off water. "Something's different," he growled through clenched teeth. His answer may have seemed off the mark, but the other man nodded his head in understanding. "I've been feeling it for several days now. It's like an itch that won't go away."

"Is it _The Other_ , or whatever name it is you call our Lord's gift?"

" _Gift?!_ " Dolohov's face contorted with fury. "I would like to see you live with this _gift_ , you fucking cunt! I can't control my own body at times, and it's growing stronger now. I don't remember what I did yesterday. I woke up covered in blood but without a single recollection as to whose it was or how it got there. My mind is going. You live with that and call it a _gift._ "

The hooded man, it seemed, was completely untroubled by his fellow Death Eater's eruption. "We all have our part to play," he replied haughtily, checking a watch on his wrist. "I'm tied down to this forsaken place just as you are… the Dark Lord made sure we would carry out his orders, even after his death."

"Some get a cushy job in the Ministry, you mean, while others walk across half the world looking for fuck knows what."

"And how is that progressing, by the way? Have you made any headway towards finding _The Key_ to your little passenger?"

This was obviously a painful subject. " _It would go quicker if you would help,_ " Dolohov ground out, seething with anger.

"I could," the hooded man responded, enunciating each word with glacial clarity. "But I won't. Because all of this: your condition, my compulsions, the fact that I can't flee the country while my face is plastered on every 'Wanted' poster... _it's all your fucking fault_!"

'Is it not–"

" _YES IT IS!_ This is all of your doing, Dolohov! You had the girl! If you would have brought her to our Lord, instead of deciding to play around and then let her escape, then maybe you'd still have your dick and not be in this–"

"Shut the fuck up, Ya–"

"Don't!" The other man grabbed the front of Dolohov's robes and slammed him into the door of the chapel. "Don't _ever_ say my name," he hissed in his ear. "I will not end up in Azkaban because of your carelessness!"

Dolohov glowered. The man released his grip and backed away slowly.

"This is on you, Antonin. You got yourself into this mess – you figure it out. You find this _Key_ and you do it fast, because I think you're running out of time."

Both man stared at each other, unwilling to back down. Finally, Dolohov asked, "What was so important that you needed to tell me face-to-face?"

Several seconds passed before he got his answer. "One of my little birdies in the Ministry told me that Potter and Weasley are poking around things they shouldn't. They're asking about muggle crimes."

Dolohov wetted his lips. "Do they know anything?" he asked. "Is it connected to the mudblood? She hasn't been found yet, has she?"

"Ahh… yes, the mudblood," the other man said, scorn, thick as honey, dripping from his words. "The same mudblood that has bested you twice; that almost killed you in Moscow and cursed you so hard that blood still leaches from your wounded shoulder. The mudblood that is the reason for all of this, because if you had just done what you were ordered to do, instead of getting your cock wet, then we wouldn't–"

"Get to the fucking point."

"...No. _That_ mudblood, as my sources inform me, is still missing. This Potter-Weasley thing could be a fluke, but I'll try to check up on that duo. Discreetly, of course."

"This means nothing to me."

"It does it they catch you. If a single mudblood can best you, then what good will you be against our dear Harry Potter? So lay low for a while. Keep away from the muggles, and keep that little thing in your head restrained."

Dolohov turned around and spat on the ground. "Killing muggles is the only thing keeping me sane," he said venomously.

The other man shrugged and retrieved his wand. "If you think you are sane, Antonin," he stated before disapparating, "then you must have already lost your mind."

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Ron and Harry knew the answer before the woman even opened her mouth. She expressed the same range of emotions as some of the other folk they'd approached: hope, confusion, and then despair.

"No," she said, shaking her head sadly. "Disappeared on me three years ago. Haven't seen him since."

"And you've heard no news at all?"

The woman glared at them. "That's something I should be asking you, Mr. Potter," she said. "I filed a missing person's report years ago, but I guess you aurors have better things to do than finding my husband."

There was nothing to gain here anymore. They apologized for the intrusion and bid their farewells. Outside, Ron used the tip of his foot to poke at the pebbles that lined the pathway leading to the small house they had just been in.

"Five people," he said. "How much you wanna bet that the story for the other twelve will be the same?"

Harry looked up and down the quaint village street before replying. Rows of trimmed hedges lined one-story houses; the people here were on the poorer side, but dignity and tidiness replaced any riches they did not possess. This did not seem like a place for crime.

"No," he answered with a heavy sigh. "I won't take the bet, but we still have to check. Maybe they missed one."

"Oh, we'll do our due diligence," his best friend of over a decade agreed, "but you know they're probably all dead."

Harry nodded.

Yesterday, after Ron's conversation with Rawlings, Harry and Ron had descended to the Records Department after their shifts ended. Harry distracted the Record's keeper – an ancient witch with a crooked nose by the name of Lida Abskepth – while Ron slipped by concealed under Harry's invisibility cloak. It took him three hours to find the information on all of the 18 people that had been employed (and later fired) by the Muggle Crimes Unit. One of them was Rawlings, and they gave his file a cursory glance before looking at the other ones. Nothing of character stood out, and today (it was a Saturday) they had gone out to visit some of these individuals hoping to find an answer as to why MCU was shut down.

That's when the problems began.

Of the five people they had visited so far, every single one was either gone or missing. Some had moved shortly after their employment with the ministry concluded, and no one had heard from them since; while some had just straight up vanished into thin air. The families of these missing claimed that they had contacted the Auror Department, but no headway had been made in years.

In fact, most of these people, upon seeing Harry and Ron, had assumed they were coming to update them on the progress of the investigation.

It was a damning development, and it stunned the two young aurors. Seventeen people – employees of the ministry, no less – were missing, probably dead, and no one knew anything. While it was true that the year after the war's end was tumultuous, this… this was a failure of epic proportions.

"Funny thing is," Ron noted, "Rawlings was alive and well yesterday. You'd think he'd suffer the same fate as the rest of these folk that worked in his old unit.

"You think he's involved?" Harry asked.

Ron shrugged. "Sure starting to look that way. Otherwise, why would whoever did this keep him alive and dispose of everyone else?"

Harry let out another sigh and rubbed the faded scar on his forehead. "C'mon," he said, taking out the list of people they had. "Maybe we'll find something. Maybe they missed one."

"Yeah," Ron took a kick at the ground. He did not sound hopeful. "Maybe."

It was closer to evening already, and they ended up visiting only three more residences on the list. The story repeated itself: not one ex-employee of MCU could be tracked down.

Disheartened, they apparated to Hermione's muggle flat – the one she had obtained when her memory had been suppressed by the virus. She had retained the lease on it, and this was where Harry stored the cell phone she had given him, because it refused to work in magical zones. Harry had come here every day since Hermione left, checking for any news from her, or just calling and talking about how things were.

Looking at the sparse furnishings in the cheap flat space, Harry felt another pang of guilt at what his friend had been forced to endure. He couldn't help but feel grateful that Malfoy had found her; the ferret had done the right thing for once, he had to admit.

Harry picked up the phone and turned it on, while Ron curiously looked on. "It's unnatural, Harry," he declared, staring at the muggle contraption and shaking his head. "Things aren't supposed to work like that."

Harry, thinking about what most muggles would say about Ron's way of life, didn't even bother hiding his grin. When Ron noticed it, he exclaimed, "You know I'm right!" and was about to go into a prolonged defence of his position, when the phone chimed, the company logo played, and the home screen popped up.

Harry navigated to the text menu, still a little uncomfortable with the whole smartphone thing. His life was straying further and further from his muggle roots, he remarked with a little lament. But then, of course, with relatives like his, it's not like he had much to stay for.

They both read the text Hermione had written them from Paris. "Fucking Rawlings," Ron spat when he finished. "He knew."

"He can't be alone in this," Harry added. "He doesn't have the brains. It's a miracle he's in the Auror Department at all."

"Which, by the way, is a very good question in itself: how _did_ he become an auror? He's barely passed any aptitude tests, and his case clear rate is the worst, even with the joke assignments he gets. There are loads better candidates than him out there."

"Well, recruitment is usually up to Kort," Harry remarked, referring to the Head Auror. "But I can't see him involved in something like this. He's as straight an arrow as they come and hates Dark Wizards."

Looking glum, Ron noted, "So did Moody, and look like that turned out."

"So then," Harry summed up, "either Kort is imperiused, someone is impersonating him via polyjuice, or someone pressured him to hire Rawlings and keep him on the force."

"What wonderful options," Ron said with sarcasm. Harry snorted.

"Let's go check up on how Ginny's doing with the money trail," he said, turning the phone off and placing it back on the flimsy table.

The aurors disapparated from the flat with a 'pop' and appeared second later in the dim kitchen of Grimmauld Place. They both cringed at once; Ginny's vile curses could be heard echoing from the depths of the musty house. That girl had quite a mouth on her at times, and the portrait of old Walburga Black was only happy to chime in. The resulting cacophony was deafening.

Harry and Ron followed the noise to the living room, which is where they found Mrs. Potter.

Ginny was not doing well. Not well at all. Her hair was a mess, her eyes bloodshot from reading too many lines of numbers, and, from the looks of it, she was going out of her mind.

" _I can't do this!_ " she screeched, throwing several rolls of parchment at Harry and Ron when they stepped through the doorway. The two men looked about the living room. Stacks of boxes – taken from Hermione's house – were strewn about the room, files and notes haphazardly scattered around.

"These Ministry finances go back three years, and they make no sense! Why do you two get to do all the cool stuff outside, while I'm stuck in this hellhole reading things that make Binns's lectures sound like stuff of legend?!"

"Err… because we're aurors, and you're not?" Ron offered and quickly dodged an empty inkpot that Ginny threw.

"I can't solve this," she declared, rising from the floor and kicking several papers out of the way. "This is literally killing me."

"C'mon, Gin, you just need to figure out where the money that funded MCU went. How hard could it be?" Ron asked, oblivious to the fact that his sister's face was reddening with fury.

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "HOW HARD?" she exploded. "Well, forgive me, Mr. Geniusrobes, but why don't you solve it then? You'll only have to look through about ten billion documents of tiny numbers!"

"Guys, guys!" Harry cried out, raising his hands in a grand gesture of appeasement. "Ok, so this is more difficult that we thought. I mean, even Hermione sat on this information for several months and got nothing. Although, to be fair, she was rather preoccupied at the time. So, we just need to find someone we can trust, who can analyze all of this–" Harry waved a hand around the room, indicating all the scrolls of parchment "–who is familiar with the ins and outs of Ministry affairs, is obsessed with details, and won't get bored pouring through minutia."

Ginny, who had cooled off during Harry's speech, raised her gaze to the ceiling and contemplated, repeating the requirements. "So, someone familiar with how things are run in the Ministry, obsessive over details and actually able to slog through this mess…"

They all figured it out at the same time.

"Percy!"

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Hermione settled in next to Draco and gazed out the window. She was a little sad to leave Paris. It was a magical city, and there so much more to see. She wanted to visit the museums and art galleries, walk down the Champs-Elysees while humming that famous Joe Dassin song, to see the lights of the city spread out before her from the pinnacle of the Eiffel tower. She wanted to show Draco that not all muggles were bad, that he had just been exposed to a unfortunate segment of the population.

She also missed the Ritz. She wouldn't admit this, but a life of luxury called to her. She was sick of frugality, of being forced to count pennies, relying only on herself and, sometimes, a few close friends.

During the war, she had already spent a whole year in a dirty, cold and uncomfortable tent, supplementing their meager rations with roots and nuts scrounged up from the forest floor. Then, she did the recent stint in the muggle world, where her paycheck offered little in the way of living expenses.

She wanted a soft bed, a cup of hot tea in the mornings, and a large personal library where she could curl up in an armchair, losing herself for hours in the pages of a captivating novel. It was shallow, she knew, but she just didn't want to fight anymore.

And yet, it's not like the world was giving her a choice.

"What are you thinking about?" Draco asked.

Hermione shrugged. "Stuff."

"Sounds riveting," her companion teased and then tensed for a second when the train started to move. "You never did tell me, by the way," he continued, shaking off his unease, "why your house is decorated with seashells, toy ships, and pictures of the sea. Why do you like it so much?"

Hermione smiled. This, she could share. And so she told him, as the train rolled on its tracks, cutting through Eastern Europe, bringing them closer to a city with onion-domed cathedrals and a fortress made of red stone.

Bringing them closer to the next step of the hunt.


	24. The Man with the Beady Eyes

**A short chapter, but I thought it deserved to be by itself.**

* * *

Gus Rawlings had never been anything special. He'd never held the highest achievements in school, nor taken the top prizes on the sports fields. He just didn't stand out: neither in looks, brains or even basic human qualities. Even his heritage worked against him. He came from a pureblood family, but one that was lacking in both influence and money. Sorted into Slytherin, that meant Gus was always the poor kid at the rich children's table. They mocked his tattered robes and second-hand books, his lack of a good broom and the way his beady eyes made him look like an overgrown rat.

There was, however, one quality that Rawlings possessed in excess: he had a very keen nose that could always figure out where the wind was blowing. He knew which side to pick, who to follow and also when, like a rat fleeing a sinking ship, to break free.

Just like now.

Because Rawlings was very well aware of what happened to his colleagues at MCU as well as the reason behind their demise. And when Ronald Weasley, as subtle as a stampeding elephant in a china shop, came asking about those issues, Rawlings's nose twitched and told him that the winds were a-changing; that the hand that had fed him so well these past several years was about to go down in flames.

So one day after Weasley's inquiries, Gus Rawlings packed some bags, sent an owl to Ministry requesting leave to visit his ailing mother (his mother was dead), and took a portkey to France. His plans for the near future had been meticulously planned out and were rather simple: get a new identity and run away.

Thanks to the last few years at the Ministry, Gus was rich. It wasn't because of the job in the traditional sense of the word – a government employee's salary was nothing to boast of – but due to a rather profitable arrangement with a not-so-mysterious benefactor. It had begun several months before MCU was shut down in the shape of an owl carrying a simple letter. It offered heaps of galleons in exchange for cooperation.

The terms were simple: Gus would gather information, obstruct investigations, remove/misfile certain paperwork, and destroy evidence. In return, he was promised money and a position in the Auror Department, where he could use the full power of his new station for personal gain.

Gus didn't turn down the offer; it was lucrative, it would make him wealthy, and it would give him a chance to get back at all the people who had laughed at him in school. The same people who had sided with You-Know-Who and were now reaping the rewards of their ill-fated decision.

To be perfectly honest, Gus had once fleetingly considered joining the evil wizard himself, looking for an easy way to rise to the top of some hierarchy. The problem with that was that Gus never did have much of a propensity for violence. Violence required guts and taking risks; Rawlings had little of the first and no desire to participate in the second.

But this proposition seemed worth the risk; the biggest danger with paperwork, after all, was a paper cut. All he had to do was be careful. So he accepted, covering up suspicious muggle deaths until the funding for MCU was redirected and most of its workers received letters of termination. Then he floated around the Ministry for a bit until his application to the Auror Department was accepted. Rawlings knew he would have never been admitted based on pure merit, so someone powerful must have pressured the Head Auror to hire him. He didn't wonder too much of how high this conspiracy went; some things were dangerous to know. Rawlings reasoned that as long as he was useful and didn't pose a risk, he would be safe. It seemed he had been right.

Working at the Auror Department was like a dream come true. The stuck-up, parochial purebloods that had treated him like second-class were now supplicants at his feet. He could arrest them, take their property, frame them for all sorts of crimes… many pureblood families were pariahs now, and the public was only too happy to condemn them for any injustice, real or fabricated. This had become something of a social norm, and it reflected on the policies within the administration and the Department. No one looked too closely, for example, if there were inconsistencies in an arrest report, or if some "evidence" – opulent goods confiscated from wealthy estates – disappeared from lockup.

Many aurors – with the exception of a few idealists like Potter and Weasley – supported these actions, believing that families with You-Know-Who's supporters hadn't been punished enough by the new Ministry.

Some went even further. He knew of at least two more aurors that also received instructions by owl from the same source as he did. Together, they impeded certain investigations (like the one into the Granger's disappearance and the missing MCU personnel) and raided properties, depositing the proceeds of their criminal acts into overseas banks.

He didn't think the others knew that the source of these instructions and tips was a Death Eater, which Rawlings had figured out years ago, when he was still at MCU. He didn't care, as long as he didn't get caught.

The likelihood of which was increasing now that Potter and Weasley were looking into MCU and muggle deaths. His nose was telling him so, and Rawlings had grown to trust that part of his body. He didn't need to remain in this position any longer anyways – he had two bank accounts in Switzerland and two in the States. The money in them was more than enough to provide for a life of comfort until the end of his days.

He could live with that.

His portkey took him to the giant underground Parisian caverns. The crowds here were thick and foreign; the merchants in the commercial districts more than willing to sell illegal goods and a new identity… for the right price. Several hours later, the individual named Gus Rawlings ceased to exist, and a new man took his place. He bought a series of portkeys, a couple tickets to various destinations and some generic supplies.

He mixed in among the crowds of people and magical creatures, one more ingredient in a melting pot of cultures and nationalities. There wasn't anything particularly noticeable about him, nothing that stood out to grab your attention and make you say, "Hey! Look at that guy!"

This was the most average man, someone you see on the street and instantly forget. When he finished his business, he walked over to a little park, filled with crooked fungi and giant mushrooms, and rested on a bench until one of the portkeys in his pocket activated.

And just like that, he was gone.


	25. A Malfoy In Moscow

Draco's shuffled gait – as unsteady as a sailor's after several months away at sea – finally brought him to Hermione's door. He knocked several times, rapping his knuckles against the wood, and then leaned his forehead against it as well. It felt sturdy, and sturdy was good. He'd use just about anything for support right now, because walking in straight lines was proving to be a challenging task.

Standing upright wasn't so easy either, which he discovered the hard way when Hermione wrenched the door open, causing him to lose his balance and barrel in.

"Jesus Christ, Draco!" she exclaimed, jumping out of his way. Draco noticed she was holding a cellphone and had pressed one of her hands to the mouthpiece. "Do you know what time it is?! Our rendezvous was over two hours ago! Where have you been?!"

"I wrote you I would be late on that little… coin of yours," he mumbled, staggering about her room. Before they split up, Hermione had given him a galleon that could transmit small written messages of up to 140 characters.

"And what is… why do you smell like someone dumped you in a barrel of vodka?" She accused, eyes narrowing. "I've been sitting here, worried, and you've been getting pissed in some pub?"

Draco vehemently shook his head. "No pub," he answered, finally finding a couch and falling onto the cushions with a relieved grunt. "These Russians – they're crazy. You want to leave, but they won't let you leave until you've drunk so much that you _can't._ "

"Well then why would you…" she began, her eyebrows rising indignation, but then a noise came from her phone, and she lifted it back to her ear. "Yes, Harry, I'm here," she said, and then added with a pointed glare in the blond Slytherin's direction, "It's just that _Draco_ here saw it fit to attend some party with the locals."

Conveying her displeasure at that with a reproachful sniff, she turned around and walked over to the window, continuing her conversation with the Boy-Who-Lived.

Draco groaned. He was feeling queasy and some things were doubling in his vision. "Oh, Merlin, my liver," he complained to no one in particular. "But the bears… the bears were amazing... so friendly…"

Losing his ungainly train of thought, he petered off, and stared at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. For some reason, it was spinning around. Had he been a muggle, he would have compared it to the way a helicopter's blades rotate, but he wasn't some filthy, uneducated muggle; he was a wizard! So the ceiling spun like…

Like…

Unable to complete that simile, he groaned again and lifted his head up onto a pillow. This turned his gaze away from the butterscotch ceiling and right onto Granger's bum, which quickly became the focal point of his suddenly very rapt attentions.

She was facing away from him, leaning against the window and gazing out over the bend of the Moskva River and further, where the stars of the Kremlin glowed a ruby red against the midnight sky. Drawing absentminded patterns on the glass with her fingers, she continued to chat with Potter on the phone, pointedly ignoring Draco's pitiful whines.

It was always Potter on that phone, he thought. The two Gryffindors talked to each other every day, exchanging reports on the progress of their respective investigations. They also chatted a lot, mostly about meaningless things. Honestly, he never would have imagined Granger for such a blabbermouth, but she was always so reluctant to end her conversations with Potter that they dragged on _forever._

Not that he minded too much. These talks were good for her.

Too often he noticed a far-off look in her eyes, and her shoulders slumped under some invisible burden. But after talking with her friend, she'd perk up and seem a little happier. It was impossible to begrudge her that.

Oh, if only his 15-year-old self could hear these thoughts. What Draco wouldn't give for a chance to sit down with his past self and warn him of the devastation headed his way. He'd explain to that haughty schoolboy that the bullshit his father was fighting for would lead their family to the edge of ruin; that if it weren't for Granger's infallible sense of right and wrong, he'd be rotting away in Azkaban with the other Death Eaters.

But, at that age, children always strive to emulate their parents. His father hated mudbloods, and, therefore, Draco hated them too… and it wasn't even a conscious decision on Lucius's part either. He had copied his own father, conforming to the established norms of pureblood society, as it had been done by for hundreds of years.

And it all culminated with a teenage girl being tortured on the floor of their mansion. A girl that had blossomed into a striking young woman, he noted, still staring at her jean-clad derriere, as his thoughts turned away from depressing, war-bound memories.

Oh, yes, there much more appealing things for his uninhibited mind to consider. Spurred by oceans of of vodka, his thoughts wandered around, until they led him to idly wonder what sort of undergarments she wore. Were they plain and cotton, were there polka dots on them, or did she opt for something more risqué?

Hogwarts-themed lingerie was back at the forefront of bedroom fashion; at least, according to the magazines he would _never_ admit to paging through. There had been a fantastic Slytherin bra and knicker set there. He pictured the lacy thing in its green and black and silver on Hermione, as she strode towards him with a sultry smirk and then, with fire dancing in her eyes and her breath ghosting over his skin, lowered herself down, down, until she was on her knees and...

"You did _what?!_ " exclaimed the object of his desires with innocent, bubbling laughter. Draco's cheeks burned with shame. He realized how wrong it felt to think about Hermione this way, especially with her in the same room. Think about something else, he thought with silent admonishment, trying to purge the sexual images from his mind. Hagrid, think about Hagrid. Hagrid and his herd of hairy hippogriffs.

Hermione meanwhile, unaware of her companion's internal conflict, continued to speak on the phone, "Harry, that is brilliant! Evil, but brilliant! I love it! And you made sure he can't…? Ok, great. Mhhm. Yes. Yes, ok. I'll check in tomorrow again, _Dad,_ don't worry. I'll be fine; I _am_ fine. Yes. Ok, tell Ron and Ginny I love them. Bye."

She hung up, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of her lips, and turned away from the window, gazing around the room with a look of sincere content. Several seconds of blissful peace played around the pair, disturbed only by sound of traffic from below. It lasted up until the moment Hermione's eyes fell upon Draco's sprawled form, which caused her to cross her arms with an irritated moue.

"Pray tell me," she asked, eyebrows rising in a disapproving rebuke, "but _why_ are you drunk like a skunk?"

Draco groaned. What the fuck did that even mean? Why would skunks get drunk? Did they do so at parties, and, if they did hold parties, were they dependent on nationality? Like, did South American skunks hold quinceaneras, and Jewish ones – Bar Mitzvahs? Would the skunks in England reverently intone "God save the Queen" thrice before going to bed, and Aussie ones brawl with kangaroos? These were very important questions, and he made a note to look into this once his head cleared.

But as to Granger's initial question… no. Explaining his current condition was an impossible feat. Granger simply wouldn't understand. For all her bookish smarts, she was a woman.

And they never do.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

It had all started when they decided to split up for the day. Well, no, if he was being honest about it, it probably began when they disembarked in Moscow. Their train had arrived late, and they spent half the night in the city's morgue, testing all the cadavers for any traces of the virus.

By the time they had dispensed with that gruesome business, it was already in the wee hours of the morning. They took a cab ride to their hotel (Hermione had nestled into his shoulder during the drive, which was almost a tradition by this point, not that he was complaining), and then trudged up to their respective rooms. Neither had woken up until the sun crossed the midday mark. Hermione, when she did rise, had been horrified at the time; she had constructed a whole plan on the train, only for it to go underfoot when they overslept.

Draco snidely remarked that with her friends like hers, she should be used to her plans falling through, which had earned him a glower and a half-hour lecture on all the redeeming qualities that Potter and his little red Weasel possessed.

She had huffed and puffed, and her hair had been all a mess, and it had been totally worth it.

Needless to say, that had put them even more behind schedule. So Draco offered to split up.

Their primary objective in Russia was to find a member of the original Dolohov family or the location of their estate. The hope was that the Dolohovs could confirm that it was, in fact, their relative that was infecting all the muggles and would have a way to locate him.

Unfortunately, finding people here was not as straightforward as simply going to their mailing address. The country was vast – more than six-and-a-half million square miles of endless tundra and bogs, forests and mountains, rivers and lakes. Wizarding communities dotted the vast expanse, hiding their locations behind potent spells of nature-based magic. It was an adaptation to the countless invasions the country had experienced over the centuries, both from the east and the west. Its resources ran deep, and with its people spread out over a wide area, many laid a greedy eye on what they thought was poorly defended.

So the local shamans and witches and wizards had learned to use the land to their advantage. Concealing their homesteads and movements, they would lure enemy forces deep into their territory, and then strike out in small ambushes, cutting off supplies and executing isolated groups until the enemy had bled to death from a thousand wounds.

While these means of partisan warfare may have been extremely effective, they had also contributed to the current state of utmost secrecy that most Russian estates relied on. Unless someone lived or worked in a large city (and none of the Dolohovs did), then finding them was a difficult matter.

So it wasn't any surprise that, after giving Draco's idea a brief amount of consideration, Hermione agreed. Apart, they could cover more ground and reach out to more people. Hopefully, one of them would get lucky.

So that was how Draco found himself wandering the streets of Moscow, searching for his father's business associates. There were several in this city, as Lucius had cultivated professional interests in many countries, Russia included. This was simply the result of sensible money management, which Malfoys, as it is known, imbibed with their mother's milk. Besides, investment diversification is like 'What to do when you're born rich 101', and even though Malfoys could be described as many things, 'poor' would not be among them.

Therefore, Malfoy gold was spread over the globe like sprinkles on a cake, and no matter how much the ministry tried, confiscating it all was simply unfeasible. Some of it was here, and Draco just needed to gain an audience with the people his father had invested in and ask them about the Dolohovs. Surely, someone knew how to locate them?

Alas, it was not that easy. The first person he attempted to contact – an old sable fur trader – had gone bankrupt and moved to Argentina. Draco's mood turned sour at such news – it was such a pigheaded way to lose money. Sadly, there hadn't been much Draco could have done, as he had simply lacked the time to conduct any business affairs in the past several years. Handing them off to some financial management agency was also out the question; trusting anyone with their family's money would have been the pinnacle of idiocy.

Now, however… now that Hermione had got him out from under the ministry's yoke and he didn't have to spend his days at that filthy muggle job anymore… now he could return the Malfoy name to its rightful place of prosperity.

Such thoughts occupied his mind as he strolled through the narrow alleys that branch off of Moscow's Old Arbat Street. They were part of the magical world, and undetectable to muggles. Grand buildings towered on each side, and a bitter wind swept through the middle. December was just around the corner, but only a sprinkling of snow had fallen so far. Draco's warming charms were insufficient for this weather, and he huddled his nose into the neck of his coat. His head was covered by an ushanka hat he had purchased from a nearby store, and it pleased him greatly. It was warm, covered his ears, and Draco also thought it made him blend in with the locals, despite the fact that he was only person wearing one.

Humming a nondescript tune, he walked on, sometimes asking other pedestrians for directions to various addresses he remembered from his father's business papers. Unfortunately, neither his second or third contact could assist him directly, but they did point to several people who might.

Draco didn't despair; on the contrary, he felt elated. Walking around like this was a luxury after years of dirty work. He was his own master now, and when he met up with Hermione in the evening, they could go down to a restaurant, and eat and talk and laugh.

Hermione… it was astounding how much at rest he felt in her proximity. It was almost instinctual to reach for her, hugging her close in the protective confines of his body, feeling the bushy strands of her hair tickle his chin. The years of animosity at school didn't matter anymore; after all, what do schoolyard taunts mean to someone who has fought a war and seen others tortured to death? They were just two individuals who shared a past so dark and terrible that they didn't need to explain it to one another. Things like that, you can't explain to anyone – they have to live through it to know what it's like, and that shared connection bridged them in many ways.

He also got the feeling that she had been lonely before, just like him. This, too, brought them closer together.

Oh, they still disagreed about many issues, of course. But the main point of contention between them – Draco's hate born of prejudice – was now gone, burned away in the fires of war. So when they did argue, it was without vitriol.

Draco's next destination – a townhouse guarded by a pair of gaudily gilded lions sitting on marble plinths – brought him out of his thoughts. Carriages lined the street, and a throng of people, all dressed up in expensive outfits, was making its way towards the entrance. Children sprinted around, oblivious to the cold, and waved toy wands, laughing with a carelessness that adults can only envy. A cavalcade of house-elves carrying boxes of all shapes and sizes (many with pretty bows) stomped up and down the wide steps that led inside.

Draco paused for a moment, observing the cheerful nature of the scene. He had seen many just like it – when life had been simple and easy, and when his greatest worry was how to meet his father's expectations. It was some child's birthday party, and a part of him wished that this child – as well as his or her whole generation – would never have to endure the terrors he had.

He joined the ranks of the privileged (it was easy – he fit right in), and walked up the steps to enter into a spacious vestibule with a vaulted, high ceiling. A matronly woman, whom he identified as the Lady of this Manor, was greeting guests with a subdued smile. He approached her with the artful movements of a practiced socialite and introduced himself, apologizing for the intrusion and requesting an audience with her husband in the same sentence.

She smiled and replied with only the barest trace of an accent, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Malfoy. Please accept my condolences on the loss of your father; even in our distant backwoods, we have heard of your misfortunes."

Draco looked around the "distant backwoods" that could give his own home a run for its money and nodded politely. After exchanging a few more pleasantries, the woman summoned a house-elf and instructed it to escort Draco to the parlour, where the men had gathered.

The men, as evident by the clouds of smog when he got there, had been socializing for quite some time, contently puffing on cigars and admiring the numerous hunting trophies hanging from the walls. The owner of the manor – a man of wide, free stature, with a wild joviality dancing in the whites of his eyes – clapped Draco on the back the instant he came near.

"Ze little Malfoy!" he exclaimed in English that was much worse than his wife's. "You come to congratulate daughter? My Natasha – she is six today, and already worse zen ze devil himself! My wife claims I spoil her too much, but vat can I do, ha?!" Everyone in the room roared with laughter.

Draco's expression became a little strained; judging by the amount of empty bottles on the tables as well as the exuberant response, everyone was more than a little tipsy. It looked like this could be another dead end.

Still, he explained his need. The man nodded sagely, clapping him several more times on the shoulder with the force of a giant. "Dolohovs, yes. I help you find! But first – you drink!" With that, he shoved a cup (not even a shot, a cup!) filled with a clear liquid. "You drink for my Natasha!"

What could he do? His options were rather limited, and, besides, he hadn't engaged in any sort of revelry in _years._ So, of course he had to drink to the health of some girl! In fact, it was actually necessary to complete his mission, and that meant he was really doing it for Hermione and all the muggles she yearned to save. Calmed by such infallible logic, he took the cup and emptied it down. The man grinned and offered him another.

And another.

The evening became hazy after that. He remembered snippets of conversation and a heated argument the content of which was unclear, because he didn't speak a lick of Russian. That didn't stop him from offering up his own opinions, and everyone, including him, shook with laughter when he did.

So many things become funny in the presence of alcohol.

A trio of bearded gentlemen cornered him at one moment, declaring that they would instruct him in the wonders of their noble language. Then, interrupting and talking over each other, they made him repeat a dozen times phrases like " _Spartak – Chempion_ " and " _Zhora bol'shoi mudak_ " until he had them committed to memory.

The high point of the evening came when the manor's owner floo'd in a couple of pet bears. The bears were brown, furry and wore red-and-gold jester's caps with little bells that jingled when they walked. It was quite a sight. The owner swore they could dance, and, emboldened by copious amounts of vodka, Draco actually volunteered, after which he, to everyone's great amusement, managed to perform a decent jig in tow with the two mammals. Everyone clapped and cheered, and Draco felt like he was the center of the party again, so many years after the last one, which had been when he was still in school and Voldemort just a dim shadow on the horizon.

Somewhere in the course of these celebrations, he remembered the owner introducing him to some grizzled chap who knew the youngest Dolohov – a girl by the name of Anastasia. She would be attending the Shabash on Bald Hill in three day's time, and, of course, Draco was welcome to share his new friend's portkey there. He just needed to come to his address in St. Petersburg, because that's where the portkey would depart from. Draco nodded, storing that information, and then quickly found himself in the middle of a disagreement of whether or not Russia could make the next Quidditch World Cup.

To Draco's credit, he attempted to leave several times after getting the information he had come for, but every time he tried, someone would thrust another drink into his hands, and, well… it would be rude to refuse, right?

Finally, he managed to slink out sometime before midnight, take the Russian equivalent of the Knight Bus to their hotel, and stagger up to Hermione's room to share the exciting news.

But articulating this tale of dedicated self-indulgence was beyond him at the moment. I mean, how do you even tell a sober person that you danced with a bear? You can't. Don't believe me? Try it.

So, he just shifted uncomfortably under the bushy-haired witch's wicked glare, smacked his lips several times, said, "Zhora bol'shoi mudak," as if it were all the explanation in the world, and promptly passed out.

Hermione, exasperated at her companion's behavior, breathed a heavy sigh. Then she removed his shoes and brought in a sheet from her bedroom to cover him. A fond smile played round her lips as she tucked Draco in. When she was done, Hermione brushed away several strands of hair from his forehead with a gentle touch and then retired to her own chamber. Sleep didn't come easily to her outside her home, but she would try.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Draco rose not two hours later, because of a riot in his stomach. No, scratch that, it was not a riot – it was a whole on revolution, a prison break of the most relentless magnitude. The contents of his gut wanted out _,_ and they wanted it now. There was no time for deliberation or negotiation; Draco sprang up and, quicker than a beggar to a spare coin, rushed to the loo. There, hugging the white porcelain of the toilet seat, he emptied the contents of his stomach in a gushing explosion. Coughing and sputtering, with tears streaming down his cheeks, he felt the acidic aftertaste of liquor burning in his mouth.

When he was finally finished, he slumped down, wiping his lips with the edge of his sleeve. Taking several deep breaths, he raised his eyes to the mirror. He looked like a vampire out of some trashy muggle novel: pale, translucent skin, bloodshot eyes, mouth twisted in a disgusted snarl.

That wasn't the worst part though.

Because there, next to his reflection in the mirror, was Hermione Granger. Dressed in a pair of maroon pajama pants that read 'GRYFFINDOR' in bold, golden letters on the side and a t-shirt that he suspected had belonged to Potter or Weasley at some point, she looked decidedly amused.

She raised an eyebrow and asked, "Learned your lesson?"

Draco didn't even dignify that with an answer and shuffled up to his feet. He opened the tap and rinsed his mouth, washing out the taste of vomit. He was in the process of drying his face with a small square hand towel, when Hermione followed up with softly spoken phrase that made him freeze.

"I was worried, you know," she said.

He dropped the towel and looked up into the mirror again, meeting her eyes. She was leaning against the doorframe, feet crossed, hands hanging limply at her sides. A pang of guilt shot through his stomach. "I'm sorry," he said. "I should have messaged you more, but things got a little crazy. There were bears..."

" _Bears?_ "

"Mhhm," he confirmed, turning around to face her. "Big dancing bears. It was for some little girl's birthday party, but I never saw her, just a bunch of men and bears."

"Wait a minute," she said, crossly, "you got wasted at child's _birthday party?_ How did… how did you even get there?"

Draco shrugged. "It's Russia," he offered by way of explanation and then added, "I found how to get in touch with one of the Dolohovs though."

Hermione visibly perked up at his words "You did? How?"

He explained what the guest that told him: that they would need to go to St. Petersburg to catch a portkey to the Shabash, which is where Anastasia would be.

"The Shabash?" Hermione eagerly clarified. "You mean the Shabash at Bald Hill?"

" _On_ Bald Hill," Draco automatically corrected. "And yes, that's where we can meet her."

"Oh, but that's great news!" Hermione exclaimed, striding over and flinging her arms around him. "That'll put us one step closer to catching him! And the Shabash... I've read about it, _of course_ –"

"Of course."

"Shush, you," she chided and continued with reverent awe. Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and, this close, he noticed that there were several freckles on her face that were positively lovely. "But to actually _be_ _there._ It's one of the most famous wizarding events! Gilinger's _Customs and Traditions of Magical Peoples_ has a whole three chapters devoted to it; Beauxbatons offers a whole course; and it's even referenced in _Hogwarts: A History!_ Draco, this is fantastic! Did you know that in 1257 it was actually the place of–"

"Hermione," he interrupted, "you sound like we're back in school, and house points are up for grabs."

She blushed and punched him in the shoulder, playfully. "It was never about the _points_ , silly. It was–oh my, I just realized I have nothing to wear!"

She jumped back, disentangling herself from their embrace, and began wringing her hands.

He grinned. The fretting actually reminded him of Pansy right now – just a little bit, proving that all girls, brainy _or_ vapid, share a trace of similarity when it comes to clothes and looks. Then, of course, it's not like men don't have their moments of self-consciousness either.

"It's not that big of a deal," he wryly calmed her down. "Clothes are one of the least significant aspects of the Shabash."

Blush deepening, Hermione remembered the lurid pictures that accompanied several of the less academic texts.

A lone car drove by outside, engine revving, and he remember how late it was.

"Why are you actually up?" he asked with a frown. "It's–what? Three in the morning?"

Hermione looked down at the ground. "Couldn't sleep," she answered with a shrug. Her voice sounded hollow all of a sudden, like wind moaning through an abandoned house that is slowly falling to ruin.

"Nightmares?"

She replied without looking up, "Something like that."

Draco paused, trying to pierce her with his stare. What was she hiding? What did she not want him to know? He recalled how she had confided in him once how uncomfortable she felt falling asleep in unfamiliar places. Was it some echo of her trauma-filled past?

"C'mon," he said after a moment, having made a decision. Tugging an arm around her waist, he led her away from the bathroom. She felt stiff to his touch, like a marionette on taut strings. "Why don't you tell me what you were laughing with Potter about?"

A small giggle broke through her lips, and he felt her loosen just a little bit at the change of subject. "It was about Percy," she explained, as he guided her onto the couch he had been sleeping in just a little while ago.

"The older Weasley? The one who always looks like he's got a stick up his–"

"Yes, yes, that one. They needed his help to figure out some of the ministry's financial dealings, and he, obviously, refused. So Harry and Ron–"

His arm was still around her, carefully, like she was a frightful animal, rubbing up and down her back. With every word she spoke, she became more animated and less tense. Her thigh and shoulder rubbed against his, and he breathed in her scent, the muted aroma of aster and foxberries. She was warm, soft and so close.

"–and they threatened to turn him into a material witness in their investigation and lock him up! They said they'd lead him out of the ministry in cuffs!"

He clucked his tongue. "They _could_ do that. The amount of authority aurors have – it's insane. They don't even need some court order or warrant or anything. What they do practically _is_ the law."

"Well, I suppose that's true, but those that lack morals just need a strong hand to direct them," Hermione argued.

Having felt their heavy handedness himself, he didn't really agree, but didn't voice his objections and just moved his hand a little higher, to which she hummed approvingly.

"Anyway, now he's locked up in Grimmauld place with stacks of documents," she finished her story.

"And he's happy with that? Aren't they afraid he'll escape?"

"Well, he wasn't happy… up until the moment Ginny pointed out what uncovering one of the biggest conspiracies in our country's history could do to his career."

Draco threw his head back and laughed.

"Yeah," she grinned. "So now he's the most enthusiastic of the bunch. Practically biting at the paper."

"Well, I'm glad that worked out."

"Me too." She yawned widely. His fingers absentmindedly twirled a curl of her hair.

"Tell me about how working with muggles was?" she asked, sleepily.

"At that distasteful place?" he scowled.

"It couldn't have been all that bad."

"It was," he said, explaining how he had been thrust into the muggle world immediately following his trial's verdict. How he had no preparation and no idea how how anything worked; how the blaring and automobile honking made him flinch; how he had felt an outsider in the land, and how his muggle coworkers would laugh at him after playing a particularly nasty prank.

He told her how lonely he had been and how much he despaired, because he had to bare it all silently, or off to Azkaban it was. He whispered his fears of being stuck in that place forever, until he couldn't stand it to the point where he would begin to ponder ways out. Ways that, usually, are very unappealing.

She made horrified sounds at the appropriate moments, and then somehow her head wound up in his lap, and he was gently winding his fingers through her hair. It was thick and springy, and he realized just how many subtle colors were contained in those bushy locks.

He talked about many things, some good, some bad, sometimes briefly touching upon the war. She would interject from time to time, and the last thing she muttered before being lulled away to the lofty realm of sleep was, "I wonder what they're doing now."

"Who?"

"The people behind this. Dolohov and his ilk. What are they planning? They need to die, Draco. I want them to die. I want to go to sleep without fearing the dark, without wondering what's outside my door. I don't want to be afraid anymore."

A lump formed in his throat, and he thought of what to respond, but she was already asleep. So, instead, he bent down and pressed his forehead against hers, wishing that he could carry some of her burdens. A shuddering sigh escaped his lips, and then lifted himself back up.

He gazed at her resting form, so beautiful, trusting and fierce; at the freckles covering her skin and the way her hair fell down in rolling waves, and the strangest feeling gripped his chest. It was something he hadn't experienced in years, something that had been torn from him in his fifth year at school. His greatest fear was he'd never feel it again.

It was the feeling of being accepted for who you are. It was the feeling of being home.

* * *

 **My deepest gratitude to those who care to comment! Not only is it kind, but it is also thought-provoking, and makes me understand how you, the readers, see this story.**

 **"Zhora bol'shoi mudak" means "Zhora is a big asshole". Who is Zhora? That, I do not know, but I'm pretty sure he's a big asshole!**

 **Shabash is a transliteration of the Russian word that translates into "Sabbath". It has two meanings; obviously I'm referring to the one that denotes it as a time when witches meet with the Devil in the dark of the night. I'm already having fun with that chapter =) It's... hmm... two updates away.**

 **I hope to bring them soon! Do vstrechi!**


	26. The Skull and the Snake

Corban Yaxley was among his fellow Death Eaters when the Dark Lord had fallen. Some of his brethren had given in to panic when their leader's body disintegrated under the Potter boy's spell. Eyes wide with terror and disbelief, they fled in random directions, leaving the field of battle in puffs of black, oily smoke. Others, enraged by the loss or simply too consumed by bloodlust to care, stormed out into suicidal attacks. Like ancient Nordic berserkers, they charged the ranks of the Order, aiming to take one or two lives before succumbing to some deadly hex.

Yaxley belonged to neither group. He was a pragmatic man and had learned to hedge his bets from a young age. Thus, he had prepared for any outcome, even the unlikely scenario of the Dark Lord's defeat. While this was, of course, an unwelcome development, sometimes you just draw the inside straight and have to fold.

Therefore, with the carefree air of a man out for an evening stroll, he apparated away to one of his many properties. A whole host of house-elves was awaiting him there, occupied with packing his belongings into hippogriff-drawn carriages. They would be transported to a seaport terminal and then shipped overseas to the colonial estate he had purchased in New Guinea. Yaxley himself would take a portkey there.

Such measures were dictated by necessity; after all, there was no place for Yaxley in a Voldemort-free Britain. The new ministry would undoubtedly hound the remaining Death Eaters down and sentence them to death or worse – rehabilitation. Therefore, it was simply not on the cards to remain in the country.

This did not bother him too much. He was at an age where the weather in New Guinea would be perfect for his aching bones, and, besides, if he was ever discovered there, the country had no extradition treaty with Britain.

Yaxley poured himself a glass of scotch and withdrew the portkey from the folds of his battle robes. It was due to go off at any minute, and then he would be safe; far away from the clutches of the Order. Idly, he wondered if any other of his compatriots had arranged similar plans. Maybe in a year or two, he mused, he would encounter some other fugitive Death Eater in a little tea shop in some remote foreign country.

Life, after all, liked to throw the funny die.

The portkey in his hand shuddered. Yaxley quickly released the glass. It fell to ground, the amber liquid spilling out and soaking into the chunky weave of an Axminster carpet. Yaxley gripped the portkey tighter, closed his eyes in expectation, and…

And the portkey, instead of transporting him to new, greener pastures, vanished from his hand. The next second, a most terrible pain descended upon the man, and he fell to the ground, right next to the now empty glass, and howled.

Even now, more than three years later, Yaxley could recall that pain in exquisite detail. It was comparable to a dozen searing needles being wheedled into a skull. It was pure, undiluted agony, and it made the stout man writhe and cry on the floor of his mansion. The pain didn't come alone; with every second of torture, certain memories – up until a moment ago, obscured by obliviate charms – became unmasked in his mind.

Later, Yaxley figured out that it was his attempt to flee the country had triggered this. The second that portkey in his hand activated, Voldemort's slumbering magic came to life and returned, along with immense discomfort, the memories the half-blood wizard had blocked in Yaxley's mind.

These memories spelled doom to all of Yaxley's plans. Instead of soaking up golden sunlight on the sandy shores of the Arafura Sea, Yaxley was to remain in Britain and help Dolohov with a certain plan Voldemort had conceived in case of his demise. Yaxley could not avoid this in any way; the dead wizard's magic compelled him to obey.

Yaxley had to admit that the plan – as well as the magic behind it – was brilliant. It was the quintessential dream of any dark wizard: to ensure retribution from beyond the grave. With Dolohov spreading the virus and Yaxley's machinations in the ministry, it had the potential to destroy both muggle and wizarding Britain.

It was Voldemort's gift to the people. His last gift.

The only problem with it for Yaxley was that it forced _him_ to participate. He was a wanted man – all of the unapprehended Death Eaters were – and there was a significant reward for information leading to his arrest. His resources were limited; the mansion and the majority of his assets quickly seized by the ministry. He had to hide in rat holes and cover his face on the rare occasions he went out into public.

Still, he persevered. He managed to build a rapport with several officials inside the ministry. At first, he baited them with tempting offers. He had much to offer, including information on other Death Eaters and their hideouts, safe houses, stashes.

The fact that there had been a significant turnover in Ministry personnel was a boon. The new employees that came to replace those who had died or moved away during the war were damaged and, often, unfit for duty. Some of them had suffered in the hostilities and, therefore, believed the ministry's policies too soft. They were only too willing to abuse their stations of newfound authority to bend the law and crack down harsher on pureblood families.

Others were looking for personal gain. The amount of money and luxury goods being confiscated from wealthy estates was both mind-boggling and very loosely monitored. This quickly led to some spry individuals supplementing their personal incomes by tapping into these unregulated revenue streams.

Basically, that meant Yaxley had options when it came to recruitment. Soon, he found those that were willing to work on a quid pro quo basis. They followed his instructions, while he gave them information on which pureblood to shake down or how to launder ill-gotten money.

Altogether, he was able to do what Voldemort's magic demanded. Yaxley wove his web, ensnaring Ministry employees from several departments. His contacts covered Dolohov's crimes in the muggle world, and then, in a stroke of brilliance (and luck), Yaxley was able to get MCU disbanded altogether. The people who had worked there were then quickly and quietly dispatched by him and Dolohov; their crimes covered by the postbellum chaos, the new aurors who were still green and inexperienced, and their own moles inside MLE.

Yaxley was successful with his part of the plan.

Dolohov was not.

Voldemort, as Yaxley remembered, had split up his virus into two parts. One was placed into Dolohov, and the other… he had no idea where or what it was, but Voldemort had hinted that it would make itself known. Whatever that meant.

Well, it hadn't, and Dolohov had been searching years for it, all to no avail. Which infuriated Yaxley for two reasons:

One: until Voldemort's plan was complete, Yaxley was chained to this island, and every extra day he spent in Britain put him at additional risk of capture. He did not buy a plot of land in New Guinea to spend the dusk of his days in some grimy, humid cell in Azkaban.

And, two: all of this Dolohov's fault in the first place. Dolohov had been given a mission by the Dark Lord during the war, and had failed it in the most imbecilic way. Voldemort, who possessed as much compassion in his shriveled soul as there is water in Death Valley, promptly punished both Dolohov and Yaxley, who had the misfortune of merely being nearby when Dolohov gave his report.

It could have been worse, Yaxley thought grimly. The Dark Lord could have infected them both; instead, Yaxley just received the compulsions to assist in the plan.

Still, it was an unrewarding job. Always on the lookout, always wary of capture. Living conditions were never a certainty either, although for the past year he had managed to find accommodations in an empty house that belonged to a now deceased member of MCU. He stole food and toiletries from some old hag next door.

He also had to continue ensuring that Dolohov's crimes in the muggle world went unreported. Thankfully, that element of the plan had seemed secure after disposing of MCU. It was therefore a shock when, out of the blue, mudblood Granger had attacked Dolohov in Moscow, almost killing him in the process. Yaxley had no idea what Voldemort's magic in his body would do if Dolohov died and the plan failed, and he didn't want to find out.

How the mudblood had figured it out and almost apprehended his partner was a mystery, and it was sheer luck that she failed. Dolohov claimed he had infected her with a copy of the virus, which seemed plausible, as the mudblood had promptly disappeared after the fight. This worked to their advantage, because as long as she was missing, Yaxley and Dolohov were safe; the rest of wizarding world being completely oblivious to the fact that scores of muggles were dying via magical infection.

Still, ever since that assault, he had became even more cautious and ordered his contacts to inform him of anything that related to MCU or muggles. Which is why, when Rawlings's owl delivered a message that Potter and Weasley were poking around these issues, he grew worried.

It was probably nothing, he reasoned. The letter was a bit vague, and Rawlings wasn't the sharpest tool in the box anyway; he could have misread the whole situation. To add to that, even though Potter and Weasley were more or less competent at their jobs, they still didn't have the mudblood's brains, and she had yet to be found. So these questions about muggles and MCU were probably the result of them growing desperate and shooting in the dark. But, still, as was already said, Yaxley was a careful man. He covered his bases and always tried to keep an ace up his sleeve.

Which is why Potter and his friend needed to be distracted, because even a blind shot can score, and Yaxley had no intention of loosing, not this late in the game.

The best way to do this would be to give the aurors something else to focus on. Something deadly and dark. Something that would remind all them that their primary objective was to hunt down dark wizards, not squeeze purebloods for money.

And he had just the thing...

Stading in a nook off to the side of Diagon Alley, Yaxley tugged at the hem of his hood. It hung low over his face, concealing his aristocratic features in shadow. The hood didn't garner too much attention to his person on the busy street; the weather was sufficiently overcast to necessitate such garb.

Still, Yaxley didn't like this. Walking out into public made him nervous – it put him just one stunner away from being captured. One more reason to curse Dolohov.

Despite the gray weather, the street bustled with life. Families were out doing early holiday shopping, and little children – too young for Hogwarts – ran around with shrill happy cries and made impromptu contests about who could make the biggest splash by jumping into a puddle. Flashy signs advertised various wares and establishments. Bells jingled when a customer walked into a shop. A festive mood hovered in the air.

It was the image of carefree content; the picture of a people who could finally go out and enjoy life without the threat of an attack. The doom and gloom of the war was in the past; these people looked towards the brightness of the future. Yaxley was going to change all of that. He would remind these families that war never truly ended. One way or another, it always claimed its due.

No one was paying him any mind. He looked out over the street once again and breathed a heavy sigh. There was no point in stalling.

His hand crept into a pocket to retrieve a small wooden box engraved with an arabesque pattern. He opened it; there, on a bed of velvet, lay a tiny glass bead. A hypnotizing whirlpool of darkness swirled within its depths. Yaxley was very careful not to look at it. Instead, he withdrew a small bottle from another pocket, uncorked it, and poured three drops of concentrated acid onto the bead. The glass began to sizzle, and the darkness, feeling the walls of its prison weakening, pulsed with eager hunger. Feeling increasingly nervous from holding the deadly artifact, Yaxley hastily slammed the lid shut and then hurled the box with the bead as far away as he could, aiming for a crowd of people that had gathered at the entrance of some store.

There was no time to waste now. Dropping the bottle of acid onto the paved stones of the street, he whipped out his wand, thrust it towards the heavens and shouted, " _MORSMORDRE!_ "

Panicked shrieks echoed throughout the street as the symbol of two decades of terror – the skull and the snake – rose to dominate the woeful skies. Yaxley, fully aware that any second now a horde of aurors would swarm the street, disapparated.

And not a moment too soon, because just several seconds later the glass casing of the bead relented and cracked. With a vicious, deafening roar, the darkness broke through. Exploding outward at supersonic speed, it tore through anything it met on its way, be it stone or flesh. It vaporized the people nearby, sparing no one, and demolished the brick and window facades of neighboring shops, burning them out from inside and sending bits of shrapnel – broken glass, stone and wood – flying in every direction.

With every death, its piercing, triumphant howl rose in volume. Unlike a muggle bomb, the darkness did not dissipate after the initial explosion. It stayed, like a victor surveying his new conquest. It stayed, and so did the skull-and-snake overhead.

They flew in the skies together, ghoulishly grinning down at the damage… at the bits of flesh and broken bone and the puddles little children had played in just a moment ago.

The same puddles that were now red with blood.


	27. Shutter-Click

_Shutter-click._

Harry stood at the edge of the taped-off area, looking over the carnage. It was indiscriminate: bodies – what was left of them, at least – littered the street next to shattered glass, twisted sheets of metal and crumbled stone. Fire-licked merchandise was strewn in-between the debris; nearby, right inside the seclusion zone and next to Harry's foot, lay a small girl's doll. It had a pretty red ribbon in its hair, twirling under a chilly breeze that brought the smells of ash and concrete.

 _Click. Click._

"Let me go! _Let me go!_ My baby – she's there! _Let me go_ ; she needs me!" A mother was crying hysterically nearby, fighting to break free of the several wizards restraining her. They had bright yellow armbands which signified them as emergency personnel. Other members of Magical Law Enforcement buzzed about the scene like a hive of angry wasps. There were aurors, forensic specialists, medical staff, and some of the top brass. Further away, a crowd of reporters had gathered, their camera flashes going off like bolts of lighting in a stormy sky.

 _Shutter-Click. Shutter-Click. Shutter-Click._

Near them, people congregated, forlorn, their faces lined with grief. Some of them just stood there, a silent mass, petrified with shock. Others cried freely, unashamed of expressing their emotions, and furrowed their brows in anger.

Harry understood the last group very well. There was a desperate fury in his soul that burned like acid. Again, he had failed. Again, people had died because he hadn't been good enough. His fists were clenched so hard that he felt his own fingernails digging into his skin.

He looked inside the enclosed perimeter, where the remnants of the despicable spell still lingered. It had taken a dozen aurors to contain it, and, still, it wasn't eradicated completely. As if in response to his thoughts, these remnants pulsed, and he imagined they were gloating over his helplessness and inability to assist those that had passed.

 _Shutter-Click._

"Easy there, mate," Ron said as he walked up and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. He had just come from a meeting with forensics, the Head Auror, MLE's director, and the Minister for Magic himself.

"What did they say?" Harry bit out through clenched teeth.

"They're working to identify the spell." Although Ron replied in a clipped, professional tone, a storm raged behind his hooded eyes. "It's old magic, familial, pureblood. Probably from some artifact that had been kept in a vault somewhere. They're looking to match it with already existing samples; if it's one of the Death Eaters that did this, we'll know by sundown."

"As if there was any doubt," Harry laughed bitterly. "Anything else?"

Ron hesitated a bit before answering and Harry turned his face to look at his. His eyes, vividly green and cold, seemed to bore into Ron's. Ron looked away.

"Well, as you know," he finally said, clearing his throat, "the minister canceled all leave, and recalled every auror… It's all hands on deck here, and everyone's checked in… everyone except Rawlings."

"He's gone?" Harry asked sharply.

"No one's been able to get a hold of him. So, yeah, I think he's run, 'Arry… This is my fucking fault. He musta read me when I approached him at the ministry; tipped the bugger right off, I did."

"Ron, no. You… no, you–we–none of us had any reason to suspect him."

Ron shook his head sadly. "We knew people in the ministry were working with the Death Eaters, Harry. I shoulda been more careful. Maybe he told whoever he was working for about my questions, maybe… Harry," Ron suddenly choked out in a hoarse whisper, "Harry, what if all of this is my fault?! He went missing _the day after_ I talked to him! And now, this happens?! Oh, Merlin…"

"Ron, Goddamn it, stop!" Harry hissed angrily. He made sure to stand close so no one could overhear their conversation. "You know I'm standing here thinking the same things: if only I'd been better, if only we'd apprehended them sooner… _If, if, if!_ But we can't think like that, because if you and I start wallowing in self-pity then who the fuck will close this case?! The Death Eater that made the decision to do this, to kill all these people, this is on _him_ , and if you start blaming yourself, then we might as well just pack up and go home! So keep it together, man!" Harry shook his best friend, hard.

"You're right," Ron gulped. "I just…"

"C'mon," Harry interrupted, before Ron could delve deeper into self-doubt, "we have a fucking job to do. Let's go."

Ron nodded, quickly wiping his eyes when his friend turned away, and followed Harry down to where dozens of black tarps covered body, after body, after body. They were standard issue, all made in one size, which made the scene ever more painful. Because, although the tarps were the same, the bodies under them weren't. They bulged in many sizes, belying the true ages of the victims. Too many of them were tiny, fit only for a child.

Ron gazed over the small forms, swallowing a lump in his throat, and vowed that he would do whatever necessary, but he would catch the people who did this. He would catch them and make them pay.

 _Shutter-Click._

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Hermione and Draco heard of the tragedy in St. Petersburg. It was hard to ignore once they entered the city's magical domain. There were children on street corners holding bunches of newspapers for sale – like something out of a Dicken's novel –, and even though neither Hermione nor Draco knew Russian, the photos of Diagon Alley on their covers were unmistakable.

Hermione gasped and pressed a hand over her heart when she saw. They quickly found a stand that sold foreign prints, _The Daily Prophet_ among them. After paying for it – eight knuts – they tore into the pages.

' _ **TERROR IN DIAGON ALLEY: THE DARK MARK FLIES AGAIN'**_ read the headline. On the photo below, the mark itself, so familiar to them both, hovered like some vulture above rows of destroyed buildings. Draco felt a tremor pass through his body at the sight, and gripped his arm tightly over the spot where a similar insignia was branded onto his skin.

He felt Hermione brace herself against him, biting back a horrified sob.

"Look, Draco," she said with trembling lips, pointing to a section of the paper labeled ' _ **VICTIMS: 37 DEAD, 15 WOUNDED'**_ _._ Below, a little girl clutching her mother's unmoving hand could be seen. The caption read: _Eilidh McHugh, aged 5, holds her deceased mother in the aftermath of the attack._

"Oh, Gods," Hermione kept muttering as she read the grisly accounts. Finally, she looked up, eyes brimming with tears.

"So much evil," she whispered. "Why, Draco? Why? Is it so hard to just live in peace? How can you not empathize with others? How can anyone do something like this?"

Draco, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable, shifted under her piercing gaze. Hermione took one glance at the spot on his arm that he was clutching and covered it with her own.

"There's a difference," she practically growled. Draco knew she was talking more than just about the attack anymore. "There are actions born of desperation, and then there's just pure evil. There's malice behind intent, and I will never be able to understand that. The ones who kill indiscriminately for pleasure, power, or to seek some form of validation… are they broken? Has the humanity been washed from their soul? How can you dissociate yourself to such an extreme so as to not feel others' pain? This sort of cruelty – it's against nature itself."

She lapsed into silence. Contemplating what she said, Draco gently pried her fingers off his hand and lowered it. He didn't have any easy answers to share. They both knew the depths of depravity that some were able to stoop to.

"We can't know for certain what's behind this," he said heavily.

"There hasn't been an attack of this magnitude–"

"Since the war," Draco finished for her. "I think it's a sign."

" _A sign?_ " she sputtered.

"That we're getting close," he explained. "Something we've done has spooked them, whoever's behind all the muggle attacks, and this is their retaliation."

Hermione shook her head. "Or it's just a reminder that we haven't caught them all. A slap in the ministry's face, if you will; a giddy way to recall the good old times."

"I don't know, Hermione," Draco disagreed. "If it was me in their place, I would have run far away by now. There's just no end game for Death Eaters in Britain anymore; it's over, they have no support. The only exception applies to those who are directly tied to this sick infection we're chasing. I guarantee you: they're behind this, and this is their salvo in our covert battle."

Hermione wiped away some tears on her cheeks. "Either way it doesn't matter to those that died," she said, sniffling. Her shoulders slumped. "It doesn't matter to that little girl."

They both looked at the paper again, where Eilidh was gazing at her mother with that bewildered expression that children get when something very-very terrible happens, and they're just beginning to grasp the ramifications. It is the look of innocence, ripped away. Soot stained the girl's cheeks and her lips were mouthing some phrase over and over again. Draco wasn't entirely certain, but he thought it was: "Mummy, wake up now! Mummy, please!"

It broke his heart just a little more.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

There were several days between their arrival in St. Petersburg and the time that the Portkey for the Shabash was scheduled to depart. Hermione, her grim determination to finish their mission reaffirmed by the terror attack, filled them with visits to a variety of specialists. She grilled them on different aspects of magical infections, hunting for any clue. Even though she went unrecognized in her disguise, she obliviated them all anyway, just in case.

Draco tagged along to these meetings, although he often felt like a third wheel. The muggleborn girl had far surpassed him in several fields of magical theory, and he quickly lost thread of the conversations. He occupied himself with minor spells and periodic glances at his bushy-haired companion. In the course of an argument or deliberation, her skin would become tinted with pink and her eyes would sparkle with academic thrill.

It was the most beautiful sight.

They spent the evenings walking about the wide boulevards of the once Imperial capital. It wasn't a touristy season; the winds too gusty and strong. Still, at night, the city became doused in the lights of a myriad scintillating lamps. Hermione and Draco would wander, visiting parks, museums and golden-domed cathedrals. They watched the drawbridges rise over the Neva River, ships sailing through the opening. Hermione stared at them for a long time, so that even the last pedestrian stragglers disappeared from the streets, and Draco had to recast a warming charm three times.

There were two sides to Hermione Granger, he had discerned. In the presence of others, she put on a steely front, brave, unyielding, sometimes vicious. But when it was just him and her, the facade would inevitably drop, leaving her yearning for drops of affection.

Draco could not imagine what had precipitated this. When he asked, she just smiled sadly and told him to focus on other things.

On their first night in the city, when they returned to their hotel, Hermione invited him into her room. They curled in together on the couch, talking about everything and nothing. One of his hands languidly twirled a lock or two of her hair, sometimes brushing against the skin of her neck. His other held his wand, which he tapped against the cushions with absentminded restlessness.

It was serene and peaceful. And, when she reached over for the wand he was holding, it left him completely unprepared in the face of his own sudden, visceral reaction.

It was anger. No, it was more than that. Like a summer storm, a flash of unbridled rage burned through his veins, leaving a toxic aftertaste under his tongue. His fingers clenched, almost as if on their own, protecting the magical conduit. He needed it; this was _his_ wand! How dare this _mudblood_ try and take it?!

It was the word – that word – which knocked him out of this daze. His thoughts were sluggish for several moments, and then a chasm of horror opened in his soul, ready to swallow him whole. He gasped, feeling its icy breath. Where had this come from? He hadn't thought like that in years!

Hermione must have noticed something, because she turned her head and asked him with a perplexed expression, "Draco? Are you alright?"

A mountain of shame weighed down on him. He couldn't even imagine the look of disgust and disappointment she would give him if she knew what had just gone through his mind.

"It's nothing," he lied quickly, trying to still his beating heart. He forced his fingers to relinquish their hold, letting her pry the wand from from his grip. It was almost painful, like something was trying to fight him every step of the way. The feeling passed, however, once the wand was out of his hands. "The pelmeni must have not agreed with me," he added with a weak smile, referring to the dumplings they had for dinner.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Hermione said compassionately. "Do you need–"

"No, no, I'm fine already. Really," he tried his best to reassure her.

"Well, alright," she said, giving him a careful look and then switching over to the wand. With a cool appraisal, she slid her fingers along its polished length and murmured something.

Draco, whose thoughts were still a little scrambled, didn't make it out.

"What?" he asked.

"Malfoy no wand in," she repeated, still transfixed by the object. "But no wand in _what?_ Why was that phrase so important to me, and what word comes next? What relevance does your wand have to the virus, the muggles… this whole situation?"

Draco's eyes were glued to the wand. There was an uncomfortable pressure in his chest that demanded he take it back right now and cast a spell or two. He took a deep breath to check this feeling and replied, sounding a bit forced, "I don't know, Hermione. This is the only wand I've got, and both you and the ministry have conducted dozens of tests on it. There's nothing special about it."

She tilted her head a little to the side and said, "Well, that's not exactly true," sounding every bit like a huffy, know-it-all that is busy pointing out a fellow student's mistake in class.

"I don't follow." He frowned.

"There is something special about this wand," she asserted, a mischievous twinkle playing about her eyes. He still didn't understand, but she let the silence hang for a moment, and then softly, almost tenderly, explained.

"It's yours."

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Apart from that night, there was one other that gave Draco cause for some concern, but this time about Hermione.

It was on the eve of their departure; their last day in the city. Moments of physical closeness were already common for them, but this time, he went further than just holding hands. They were in her room again, resting after a full day. Hermione had taught him how to play some silly muggle game called charades which they adapted to fit a Hogwarts theme. During her turn, Hermione, with a cheeky grin, pantomimed a scene where a _certain_ student got what he deserved from a _certain_ hippogriff. This was all done rather expressively, and when Draco figured it out, he was simply forced to defend his honor. Hollering with mock indignation and anger, he jumped up, declared that he would teach her a lesson, and proceeded to chase her all around the room, all the while dodging various cushions and pillows she attempted to delay him with.

Finally, her supply of ammunition expired, Hermione found herself backed into a corner. With no way out, she put on a serious mien and told him that it had been fun and all, but now it was over, and would he be so kind and let her out, after which he could go sit _over there._

Psh, in the history of the world, that tactic has maybe worked _once._ Then again, in Hermione's defence, she had been a single child. She had little clue about the size of wars that siblings could wage, and the few muggle friends she did have were all like her – serious and even somewhat precocious.

Ginny, with all of her brothers, would have been prepared for the next part, but Hermione was ill-equipped to deal with this sort of battle.

This seemed to dawn on her at the last moment, but by then it was too late. With a devilish glint in his eye, Draco promised her she'd be _sorry_ , and then unleashed the most wicked of all punishments and tortures – tickling. She screamed, gasped and pleaded, promising him (in between squeals of laughter) anything, _everything,_ if he would just stop. Unmoved by her cries of ' _not fair!_ ', Draco emitted the signature 'MUAHAHAHA' that every villain must perfect in order to get their villain diploma and then declared to the world that he, the notorious Draco of House Malfoy, had finally discovered a way to collar the noble lioness! Oh, what a foolish man the Dark Lord turned out to be! He had committed so many resources to a war, when all he had to do to win was tickle one itsy Gryffindor! Which Draco then proceeded to do again, with relish.

Hermione might have even been offended, but her lungs were burning from laughing too hard.

Finally, he relented, and she wound up in his arms. She was close, so close, body pressed flush against his. Breathing heavily, her eyes were wide and sweet, like pools of clover honey. He could drown in them, he realized.

He leaned in, and she didn't object. She tilted her head, just a little bit, closing her eyes, and then he pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth.

It was nervous and inexperienced, and it was their first kiss.

It was also wrong.

He felt it almost instantly: her reaction, a stiffening of the joints, a sharp, panicked intake of air. Whatever arousal and happiness he had fled, doused by a river of worry. Did he do something wrong? He pulled back then, only to observe that she had gone still, like someone had stunned her with a petrifying charm.

He could hear her heart thundering erratically, her skin going pale as snow, and breaths coming out in short, shallow pants. Eyes wide with fright, she looked like some animal, hounded down and awaiting the finishing blow.

For a moment, he had no idea what to do. He didn't move, didn't even blink, terrified of scaring her further. Beads of icy sweat popped up on his temples, growing heavy and fat. He swallowed, and then, trying to be as gentle as possible, ran his trembling hands over her shoulders and back. This seemed to have some effect, so he repeated that motion over and over again, while his mouth worked on its own, babbling about things that he would never be able to recall. Eventually, he wound up whispering the words of lullaby his mother used to sing.

" _Hush now,_ _mo stórin_ _,_

 _Close your eyes and sleep,_

 _Waltzing the waves,_

 _Diving the deep…"_

This seemed to work; slowly, she relaxed, and a little color found its way into her cheeks. Her breathing evened out, her chest beginning to rise and fall with steady rhythm.

" _Stars are shining bright,_

 _The wind is on the rise,_

 _Whispering words_

 _Of long lost lullabies…"_

He rocked her like a child in his arms, back and forth, stroking down tufts of rebellious hair. She clutched at him, pressing her nose into his shoulder, dampening his clothes with trails of tears.

" _Oh, won't you come with me,_

 _Where the moon is made of gold…"_

Hermione was crying, soundlessly, silently. He wanted to pause, to ask if she was alright, but she just gripped him tighter and shook her head into his shoulder.

He didn't push.

Instead, he picked her up, marveling at how light she was, and carried her to bed. After tucking her in, he lay close over the covers, humming the last verses of the song as the moon danced across the heavens and the first rays of light broke through to herald the dawn of a new day.

The day of the Shabash at Bald Hill.

* * *

 **Draco's song is called 'Song of the Sea'. It was (as far I can understand) composed by Bruno Coulais and performed by Nolwenn Leroy.**

 **Oh, and, yes: I moved up JKR's timeline for this story.**


	28. The Burning Flame

_**That evening, somewhere in Eastern Europe...**_

The moon, like a circle of cheese, hung ripe and yellow above a cavalry of clouds. It bathed the lands below in its drunk light, easing the world into sinful shadow. Tonight, the moon hinted, tonight is the night. The time to lose your inhibitions and give in to the carnal nature of the free spirit. The time to partake in debauchery, to share the love of the universe through food and drink and sex! Tonight, there would be no rules; no regrets; no fears of public condemnation that always rise with the puritan sun!

Tonight, it mattered not whether you were human or fae, goblin or dwarf, fairy or mermaid! All races, all people were welcome to come and frolic, fight and fuck! All were equal beneath the stars and the moon!

And so they flocked. They came by broom and carpet, by apparition and portkey. They swam through rivers of frosty waters, climbed the highest mountains, dug through caverns of rigid stone, and flew between thunderous clouds. They did what was necessary to make it in time. They did what they had to…to come to the party of the year – the Shabash on Bald Hill!

This is an ancient celebration; years of merrymaking have cemented the festival as tradition. It started when pagan gods still walked the earth and Zeus reigned supreme in palaces of thunder on the snowcapped peak of Olympus. It is said that Aphrodite herself blushed at the decadent lecheries this night revealed in untouched maidens, and Dionysus smacked his lips, winking at the heaving shapes of their bodies, caught in the hedonistic throws of ecstasy.

Religions rose and fell, governments collapsed into heaps of ashes, but the Shabash never faltered. Every year, it gathered peoples from all around the globe, and, like long lost lovers, they dove back into its passionate embrace.

The world could end, and they would not notice.

 _Yaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Yaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_

The cry, liberating and free, reverberated through the skies. An orchestra of satyrs accompanied it with pulsing melodies that flushed the skin, enticing the body to move in primitively instinctive ways.

Women know these sinuous movements, oh, so well. It is the hedge that daughters of Eve hold against man's brute, yet simple strength. Passed down through the generations, mother to daughter, this knowledge is ingrained in their very DNA, giving women the power to deter even the staunchest warrior with just a simple, delicate touch.

Hermione heard this ageless call, a sensation almost indecent in its delight, as a slow, smouldering burn under her skin. Her heart danced, feeling the music, the tempo that could reach the darkest corner of the blackest soul. Shrill, haunting notes escaped from flutes of cane and bamboo; hornpipes and lurs bellowed with pride; drums shuddered in rhythmic glee.

 _Yaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_

Strange, glittering creatures dove on outstretched wings between rising columns of pillared clouds. They sang the songs of their homeland – a different world, where the sea and the sky meet in eternal battle and the winds tear foam away from giant cresting waves, sending it up high, providing for ecosystems that rely on the bounty of microorganisms within.

Fires lit up the night. They burned red and orange, purple and blue. A group of gnomes gathered at one, a herd of centaurs at another. They drank from jugs of wine and ale, laughing raucously and belching their approval to the stars.

A hazy smoke pooled across the flat expanse. Twisting into meandering trails, it grew thick near the fires and thinned out further away. It smelled of a fresh, salty breeze; of sails flapping in a westward wind; of old, creaking parchment and dusty books; of a shoulder that was so safe and so comforting to lean into…

Heat rising to her cheeks, Hermione recalled the potent fumes of amortentia she had sampled so long ago, in a classroom that now seemed like a distant memory. She had gone to school once… been so young, so righteous, so hopeful and naive.

 _Yaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_

Bald Hill was aptly named. It was naked, a rough slab of basalt and granite jutting out from the ground like the tip of some broken spear. A mighty oak grew near its base. Gripping the ground with sturdy roots, it easily bore the weight of a massive golden chain circled round its trunk. A tomcat, ragged and whiskered, walked its length. Squinting through the smoke, Hermione noticed an oddness to the creature's movements: when he went to the right, the tomcat would sing, but a step to the left – and a story would pour out of his feline mouth.

An audience had gathered below, listening raptly, a pair of mermaids among them. They lounged in a stone-rimmed well under the tree, giggling and sipping on margaritas. From time to time, they'd smack their tails against the cool water, splashing the tomcat, sending him into a spitting fury. He would hiss, tearing great scratches into the oakish bark, while the audience, believing this to be a part of the performance, cheered on.

The mermaids giggled louder, and the infinite sky twinkled above.

 _Yaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_

A scarf of white shrouded Bald Hill's summit, a blizzard that touched only the peak and nothing else. A Muggle meteorologist would have gone crazy just staring at such anomalous behavior, but Hermione knew the cause. This year's Shabash was special; tonight, the Queen of the Winter Fae was holding her court among the festivities.

The Fae were a common topic of academic dissent in the wizarding community. Not much was known about them, except that they were intricately linked to the earth's weather patterns and separated themselves into two groups: the winter and summer fae. Both were ruled by queens.

A queue of people wound around the hill, spiraling up its slope, disappearing into the white snow at the top. They had lined up to pay their respects to (or even just see) the mysterious queen and her subjects. Hermione felt an urge to join them; to gaze upon another marvel of this world that she never even knew existed until that world-shattering letter which had arrived on her eleventh birthday.

This was her world now. She had fought for it, killed for it. By her sweat and blood, she had earned a place among its hollow eaves. She wanted to experience it fully, to leave no stone unturned, and catalogue all the wonders that magic had to offer, the Fae among them.

Oh, how she yearned…but it would have to wait. They needed to find the Dolohov girl first.

A heavy sigh escaped her lips. She turned to Draco, tearing her eyes away from the sights.

"Do you have the picture?" she asked her…friend. Was that the proper term? Was he _just_ a friend, or had their relationship evolved into something more significant? Something she had been too terrified to even consider for years - something that, maybe, this night could change?

The wizard, unaware of her thoughts, nodded and retrieved a small photo from the confines of his cloak. Draco's acquaintance from the birthday party – the one who had invited them to share his portkey here – had given it to him. A young woman – Anastasia Dolohova – was laughing from within as she waved a fist at whoever was taking the picture. Hermione had to admit the girl was beautiful. She had tresses of long, silky hair, black as a raven's wing, and expressive, almond-shaped eyes that are so common among those living to the east of the Ural Mountains.

This picture was all they had to go on, but it should be enough. Draco's friend was certain that Anastasia would be at the Shabash…now, it was just an issue of finding her.

"Well," Hermione said, giving the picture a second glance and then looking around, "let's get to it."

Draco nodded again and led the way.

They wandered to and fro, crossing the dreamy landscape. Approaching one fire and then the next, they showed the picture to all sorts of people and magical creatures, asking if anyone had seen this girl. Hermione marveled at the diversity. It seemed like every wizarding culture, every community had brought a representative.

A group of voodoo practitioners from Haiti pointed them one way; a pair of Native American shamans – another. A lonely kikimora garbled something in old Russian, shaking her head. A leshy ambled by. Upon seeing the photo, he grew excited and started wildly gesticulating with his wooden limbs, attempting to express some thought in his tree language. Unfortunately, there was no dryad nearby to translate, so Hermione and Draco had to move on.

 _Yaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_

The fires changed; the smoke shifted. A cracking boom, almost like the snap of some giant whip, ripped through the skies. The airborne animals roared in reply as a quartet of thunderbirds from the American southwest joined the fray. Hermione lifted her head, savoring the flying forms that graced the skies above. For a brief moment, she thought she saw a dragon's thorny crown peek out from over the hump of a cloud, but then it was gone.

Spying something out of the corner of her eye, Hermione turned her head and gaped. There, hovering near Draco's ear, was the most ridiculous little creature. It looked like a tiny, pink elephant with four wings much like a butterfly's.

Hermione grunted disbelievingly. Draco startled and met her gaze.

"What?" he asked quizzically.

The elephant squeaked and started to fly away.

"There!" Hermione shouted, pointing. "Look, Draco! Right there!"

Draco swiveled his head back and forth, trying to see whatever she was pointing at. The elephant disappeared.

"Where? I don't see anything!"

"Oh my God, Draco!" Hermione was actually jumping up and down. "It was a wrackspurt! A fucking wrackspurt!"

"A _what?_!"

"A wrackspurt! Luna told me about them! Oh, Gods, I have to apologize to her now." Hermione was rambling now. "They do exist! Wow. I cannot believe this! Not a single book – can you imagine that?! – not a single book or bestiary has them, but Luna knew!"

"Luna? The Lovegood girl? Why do you have to apologize to her?"

"Ugh, because," Hermione groaned with apparent disgruntlement at such unfairness, "there was not a single shred of evidence to this creature's existence! But Luna, being _Luna_ , insisted they were real, and I was grumpy and snapped at her that unfounded fantasies don't make reality, that science is about the observable universe, and then she got all huffy and told me in that roundabout way of hers that some blind would never see, and that I could essentially go f...you know what, actually? Never mind."

"No, no," Draco chuckled, "please, continue."

Hermione glared. Draco grinned.

"It was some time ago, anyway," Hermione said, softer now. "Over a year ago…or maybe two? Huh. I can't really remember when I last saw her."

"Why? Were you close?"

Hermione shrugged. The joy of the party fled for a moment, leaving behind an empty melancholy. "Not as close as I was with Harry and Ron. Still, she was a good friend. I just…stopped keeping in touch, I suppose. Lost myself in work, and then this curse business. I ended up drifting away, losing her and so many others…"

Draco looked at his companion with sadness, musing at how life had turned out for the both of them. Never bet against the future. It will always find a way to surprise you, to tear you from the beaten path, thrusting you into a new direction. You can flounder and struggle, but the loom is already in motion, weaving threads of destiny into the tapestry of reality. And once the plan is set, what do a mortal's whims matter? The outcome has already been determined, fate set by the staff, the spindle and the scroll.

 _Man's dominion_ …those words are an oxymoron beneath the weight of the cosmos. Man may battle for his life, his choices, but, on a heavenly scale, his fight is microscopic, and his actions – irrelevant.

 _Our greatest strength,_ thought Draco _, comes not from the ability to exercise our will onto others, but from aligning ourselves with the natural order. To bear the galactic testament with as much dignity as one can possibly muster – that is the true meaning of life._

"You'll get her back," he promised, tugging Hermione close. "Nothing's over, it's all just beginning."

"You think so?" she sniffed.

He nodded, holding her intimately, inhaling the smell of aster and foxberries. It mingled freely with the other scents of the Shabash: the woody smoke, the fat dripping off spit-roasted pigs, the barrels of spilled wine…It made for an intoxicating aroma, one that he wouldn't mind breathing in for the rest of his days.

But for Hermione, there was one more smell. It was close, warm and comforting, something inherently Draco, someone who had grown in her soul from a boy she despised to a young man that made her heart flutter.

She leaned in, resting against his form. He was a pillar of pale marble stone, and she – a clinging vine, lush and verdant. Together, they were a picture of Renaissance, one worthy of Rubens' brush.

Stepping back, her moment of weakness passed, and she felt stronger.

"Let's find Anastasia already," she said.

They continued their wanderings, parting waves of smoke like a pair of ships on a foggy sea. The thrill of exploration returned to Hermione's bones, as her ears picked up the distant melodies of the satyr orchestra. She was Magellan and Columbus, Marco Polo and Ponce de Leon, opening up the untouched horizons of _terra incognita_. What would the next fire reveal? Another new creature that she would have never read about in a book? Would the next discovery be her Fountain of Youth or would she stumble onto that spot on the map that read 'Here There Be Monsters'?

They paused suddenly, becoming acutely aware of the silky sighs coming from behind a curtain of smoke. Hermione blushed; it didn't take much of an imagination to realize what was transpiring there. She made a gesture to tug Draco away, when an unexpected breeze blew by, casting the smoke to the side, revealing a sinful sight of liberating proportions.

Hermione gasped and looked away quickly, very quickly…but it was too late. A uninhibited warmth started to spread through her body, and her mind – her brilliant, perpetually curious mind – traitorously whispered, " _Just a peek_."

She obeyed, turning her head to look at the remnants of a fire and the two bodies by its side.

Hermione could see them – him and her – in the dim ruby light of flickering coals. _She_ was wild and free, riding her partner with shameless abandon. Her eyes were vivid, filled with a captivating, open lust. Back arched into a curve, her hips danced in an almost desperate cadence, matching _his_ thrusts, up and down. Beads of sweat glistened on flushed skin. Enraptured, Hermione watched one grow fat, dipping low to sink into the valley between the woman's heaving breasts. They were supple and heavy, an image of feminine bounty, nipples dark and tight.

Hermione's breath hitched and then came out as a series of shallow pants, while her heart galloped in a chest that was suddenly constricted by too many layers of clothes. She had never seen – never imagined, even – such a display of raw sexuality.

The woman was moaning wantingly, uncaring – or maybe even delighted – that someone could hear. Her eyes were closed now, face lined with heavenly bliss. When the man reached up to a cup a breast, giving it a firm squeeze, a sigh of of summer sweetness escaped her lips. He grunted, gripping her waist with his other hand, holding on with that enchanted hopelessness of a sailor drowning at sea, lured to his death by the fatal songs of the siren.

They were moving quicker, faster. The coals in the fire burned brighter and danced, filling the surroundings in a tango of dark and light. Hermione gulped thickly; she became acutely aware of Draco's arm snaked around her back. His fingertips were fiddling with the hem of her shirt, and then slipped under, grazing the skin with an cool touch, sending waves of shivers up her spine and a pooling warmth in between her thighs.

Without thinking, she rubbed them together, gasping at the frictious pleasure.

...The woman heard. She opened her eyes, slowly, lazily, never pausing in the act. Turning her head, she looked at the two unwitting spectators. She smiled, ambiguously, all-knowing, like an angel descended from the heavens above. Her eyes were piercing, and Hermione felt naked under that gaze.

It felt like, in that singular moment, the woman saw all of her: the good and the bad, the hopes, the dreams, the fears and the insecurities. She saw it all, reaching even into the depths of that dark, tiny corner in the back of Hermione's mind. The one that contained her worst memory and caused her to freeze in terror when Draco had kissed her yesterday. The one that forced her to stay up at nights out of the irrational fear that when she closed her eyes, she would be back _there_. Back in that cellar, back with the silver-masked man.

Hermione wanted to look away…and found that she couldn't. She trembled, biting her lip, silently begging whatever magic had gripped her to let go. She didn't want to remember _that_ moment, nor re-live the pain and humiliation that followed. Her eyes, however, would not move, fixated on the sight of the carnal delight before her, one that felt so wrong…and yet so right. There was a power in this woman, a desire so strong that it chained the man beneath her to her will, and had caught Hermione, too, in its fiery pull. So Hermione couldn't move. She was a moth burning up in the heat of a flame that turned her defences to ash, exposing her most vulnerable core.

The woman kept looking… and she saw. She saw that night in Hermione's memories: the recollection of rotting vegetables, the feel of wet dirt mudding Hermione's face and hands. Her bruises, her innocent blood, her choking helplessness.

The woman saw…and snarled.

There was nothing angelic about her now. It was an instant metamorphosis: her face becoming angled, sharp, almost feral with hate. Hell burned through her eyes. Hermione heard it then…the scream of tortured souls writhing in pain, the sizzle of boiling oil stripping away flesh...she felt the weight of eternal damnation press against her shoulders, only to pass away moments later…

The coals ignited with infernal glow, flames bursting forth. A wave of heat crashed around them as the woman cried out, bucking her hips with inhuman force. The man shuddered, his face contorting in euphoric madness. He howled incoherently, begging, pleading…and yet never ceased his movements, thrusting into the woman on top like it was the last thing he was meant to do on this earth.

Which, as Hermione noticed a pair of horns – curved, like a ram's – peeking out from the woman's lustrous mane, it probably was.

The fire exploded. The pair's voices peaked in a satanic crescendo, as the man made one final thrust and froze in a pose of lewd nakedness, tremors rocking his body. His eyes were open, consumed by greed, desire and lust. Hermione felt his essence – his very soul – rip away, flowing into the woman. This lasted for a second…or maybe an hour, but then his look became distant, and an empty nothing – the very absence of being – came to rest upon his still features.

The flames died down that very instant, cooling down to chilled embers, black and ashen gray.

But the woman – or the demon, the succubus – oh, she _glowed_. She was full, content, her beastly hunger sated. She rose from the unmoving body, stretching languidly, a lioness licking her chops. Spots of white dribbled down her inner thighs, one of the most obscene visions Hermione would ever witness in her life.

She still couldn't move, glued to the ground. Was she breathing? Hermione didn't know. The woman cocked her head, analyzing, deciding, and then walked…no, not walked, but _swaggered_ over with a distinctive panache, exposing her body to the world, letting all admire the curve of her hips, the swell of the breast, and the lips of her swollen sex.

She stopped right in front of the Gryffindor witch, a tail swishing behind the cloven hooves that her feet had turned into. She looked right at Hermione, and Hermione, petrified, had no choice but to stare back. The succubus leaned in...

Her eyes, pools of liquid agate, were only inches away. Their depths swirled with emotion, and there, in the dark, something human lingered. Something lost and ravaged, lonely and… _understanding_. For a brief moment, Hermione didn't see the woman or the demon. She saw a little girl, barely fifteen years of age, taken against her will by the lord of the lands. Her family gave her up quickly – too many mouths to feed – and the lord threw down down a handful of coins onto the ground. Her father and brothers dropped to their knees, squealing with gratitude, and then scurried like pigs sniffing out the little pieces of silver.

The lord was a brute and a sadist, and, when the first night was over, she prayed for God to have mercy on her, for Him to send to an angel to smite down the evil man with a sword of righteousness and take her away from this prison of pain and tears.

God didn't answer.

Something else did.

And now she was here, her lips whispering soft, soothing words into Hermione's ear, as she pressed something – some object – into the palm of the witch's hand. Her deed complete, she backed away, gave Hermione one last, sad but comforting glance, and then stomped her hoof, disappearing in a puff of smoke.

 _Yaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_

Laughing voices rang through the night. Wind whistled in the oak's crown. The audience clapped, the mermaids giggled.

...Draco woke first. He blinked, mind foggy and slow. Where was he? Ah…the Shabash. It was the smoke, the atmosphere; it got to you. He shook his head, trying to remember the last thing they were doing. Oh, of course. The silly wrack-something that Hermione had seen. Her argument with Luna…he…he noticed, suddenly, that Hermione was standing right next to him, her eyes locked onto some point in the swirls of smoke before them. Merlin, you couldn't see five feet ahead, so thick it was here.

"Hermione!" he yelled, shaking her.

She snapped out of it instantly, confused.

"Wh–what?" she stammered. "What…happened?"

Draco frowned. It was these fumes, he thought again. Merlin, they ought to make drugs outta them.

"The wrack-thing," he explained helpfully. "You saw it and told me about Luna."

"Oh, right…the wrackspurt, Luna…" Hermione didn't look wholly convinced. One of her palms was curled into a fist, and she tilted her head down to stare at it.

"What is it?" Draco followed her gaze.

"I don't know…I think…" Hermione slowly unfolded her fingers. They both stared at the palm. It was empty; there was nothing there.

"No!" Hermione exclaimed desperately. "That's not right! There was…There was…Circe, I can't remember, but it was important! It was–"

"Are you alright?" he asked, now starting to get worried.

"I don't know!" Her lips quivered. "I think I saw…I can't remember, Draco!" she repeated, glancing around like a lost child.

His heart tensed; he didn't like seeing her like this. "I'm sorry," he said, moving to take her into his arms. She was just about to fall into his embrace, when a voice right over their shoulders cried out.

"Germiona!" The "G" came out soft, as in "Ghana". "Germiona, eto ti?!"

They jumped, swiveling around, hands on their wands. There, standing in all her eastern beauty, was Anastasia Dolohov.

"It is you!" she laughed, throwing her arms up. Her accent was thick, Russian. "So, tell me," she said, her slanted asiatic eyes sparkling with mischief and curiosity, "you find him?"

Shocked, Hermione managed to utter just one word: "Who?"

Anastasia looked at her like she was insane. "Deda Moroza! Who you think?! My cousin, of course! Ze crazy one with sickness inside! So, you find?"

Hermione looked at the woman they had been chasing all evening, and dumbly nodded. The moon smirked overhead, the stars twinkled.

The night was just beginning.

* * *

 **If you think this release is a little more polished, that's because I have a beta! The wonderful Frogster is helping me out! A round of applause for her, everyone! She's written a lot of fics, and you should definitely check it out!**

 **I love to hear your thoughts, and a deep thank you to all reviewers!**


	29. Anastasia's Story

**Babushka means Grandmother.**

* * *

Hermione stared at the girl before them, mind still reeling from the recent events. It felt similar to when her memories had been suppressed by the virus, but not quite. This was… kinder, as if it were done out of concern. Like a guardian angel standing over her shoulder, silent, watchful, and ready to rain heavenly fire on those who would do her harm.

Now, that the initial shock had worn down, the feeling was pleasant, albeit confusing.

An impression of some mysterious object still burned in the palm of her hand. It was there – just out of grasp.

"You find him?!" Anastasia exclaimed. "You must tell everything, yes? Ven you leave, I vorry so much, and yet you give me no choice! Zen I depart for Kamchatka, and hear no news! I only come back veek ago."

Hermione shook her head, tearing off shackles of fog. Whatever had happened – whatever she had received – she could ponder it later. Right now, she had a decision to make, and a quick one at that.

Because, without a doubt, Anastasia knew her. But Hermione had no memory of ever befriending the raven-haired girl, so it must have happened during those weeks the virus had erased. But what was their relationship like? Was Anastasia an ally or a foe?

Logic dictated the former. By asking her question, Anastasia had already indirectly confirmed that it _was_ Antonin Dolohov – her 'cousin' – spreading the virus. Additionally, her chummy demeanor hinted at some sort of kinship between the two of them.

Caution, however, urged Hermione to reveal nothing, and milk any information she could get her hands on. Use the girl, and be done with it.

For a moment, she was torn, vacillating between the two choices. Then, looking at Anastasia's open face - at her eyes, crinkled in happiness at seeing her; and at her hands, spread wide in an expressive gesture of camaraderie, she found herself incapable of lying. Somewhere deep inside, she trusted this girl, and it was just as simple as that.

She would explain her situation and hope for the best. But, first...

"Kamchatka?" Hermione asked curiously. Russia's far east was mysterious in the muggle world… so what could one say about the magical one?

Anastasia nodded eagerly.

"Yes! North of it, actually," she said. "I ended up on Ostrov Vrungelya, you know? Is island near Chukchi Sea. Germiona, if only you could see it!" She flung out her arms to the sides, articulating how vast and distant it was. "Not a touch of civilization, and ze nature, ze animals! I work zere almost five months, out of touch with ze world… is best time of my life!"

Hermione let her thoughts drift for moment, imagining what it would be like to go away for a while, travel somewhere far away. Oh, the places she would see...

Anastasia paused suddenly, and then threw an appraising glance towards Draco. "But enough about me," she said, tugging Hermione a little to the side and whispering in her ear. "How about you? Like, tell me, _sestritza_ , who is _zis_ fine young gentleman, ah?"

Hermione felt something clench inside at the sound of flirtatious notes in Anastasia's voice, and acted on pure instinct, something she couldn't even explain later on. It was deep, womanly and possessive, honed through millennia of natural selection. She put her arm on Draco's, shouldered him close to her, and gave Anastasia one of those faux toothy smiles that come naturally to girls in times of need.

A smile that, for all its apparent congeniality, really means: "Back off, bitch." Some things you don't share even with your best friend or sibling.

" _My_ friend from England," she introduced him, "Draco Malfoy."

Anastasia's lips formed into an 'o' briefly, eyebrows rising at the emphasis on the first word, but then returned to normal.

Draco, who had been standing to the side, in that slightly awkward position of someone feeling left out of a conversation, tilted his head down and reached out for Anastasia's hand, bringing it up to his lips. A proud specimen of his sex, he remained completely oblivious to the silent communications passing between the two women.

" _Enchanté_ ," he said, in an archaic pureblood gesture of greeting that would have made even the late Walburga Black – a real stickler for these sorts of things – proud. Anastasia laughed, permitting the custom, and, while Draco's eyes were down, gave Hermione a sly wink. _He's yours,_ her eyes danced with glee. _I'm just happy for you._

Draco didn't notice this either. Men just don't pick up on such things. They're too blunt, too direct. The best route to capture a man's attention is through honesty, straightforwardness, or by smacking him over the head with some object. That last one is guaranteed to work.

"Malfoy?" Anastasia asked. "Of ze Wiltshire Malfoys?"

Draco nodded.

"I see. Is zis recent zen?" Anastasia pointed to the two of them. Draco looked confused; Hermione blushed. "I only ask because you never mentioned any... ah… special friends when you visited."

Hermione sent up a prayer of thanks to whatever deity had shrouded the moon with a cloud at that precise moment. Between the smoke and the darkness, the palpable redness on her cheeks was only vaguely noticeable.

"About that…" Hermione took a deep breath and jumped in, "when did I visit?"

Quirking an eyebrow, Anastasia turned to face her with a befuddled expression.

"Please," the Gryffindor witch implored and then explained in one big burst. "I believe I found Antonin, but my memory was wiped as a result. I remember nothing of the time that I left to search for him. He escaped, and we're–" she pointed to Draco and herself, "–trying to find him. Can you help us? We obviously know each other, and yet I can't recall ever meeting you. How did we meet, and what can you tell me about your relative?"

Anastasia looked taken aback for a moment at such news, but quickly regained her composure. She gave the Hogwarts graduate a look of sadness and then threw her arms around her. "I am so sorry," she said, holding her tightly. "Of course, I help as much as I can!"

Hermione, touched by the display of affection, returned the hug. Draco, again with some awkwardness, shuffled his feet and looked around while the two women embraced. They were both very pretty, he noted.

A chorus of wolfish howls suddenly rose from the direction of Bald Hill. Hermione and Anastasia broke away, glancing at its shrouded peak, where the sound was coming from.

"Were you planning on seeing the Fae Queen?" Anastasia asked suddenly.

Eagerly, Hermione nodded. "Yes! I would love to."

"Then, come! I tell everything I know, vile ve vait to see her! Yes?"

Hermione smiled. After everything that happened, it seemed like finally life was going her way.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

The trio made their way to the foot of the hill, past the oak, to where a queue of people and beasts wove down all the way from the top. They joined in, getting into line behind a centaur and his mare. Hermione barely spared the duo a glance. As long as things were consensual – who was she to judge?

"So, ver I begin?" Anastasia mused as the line slowly shuffled forwards and up. "Do you remember anything of my home? Of how you stay vith us or vat I tell you about Antonin?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Zat bastard… to fink I share blood wiz him," Anastasia swore, shaking her head. "It happens ven people abandon zeir roots. Zat branch of our family left for England, left our mazerland, and look vat happens! Zey turn evil like fascist."

A group of centaurs got into line directly behind them. Reeking of ale, they stomped their hooves and shot murderous glares at the mare and her beau in front of the human trio. Hermione was fairly certain she heard the words 'animal fucker' spat several times, although their voices were promptly cut off as Draco cast a muffling charm to give their own conversation a modicum of privacy. Hermione noticed that after he finished casting the spell, he retained the wand in his hand, absentmindedly rolling it between his fingers.

Anastasia waited for the magic to settle around them, and then breathed a heavy sigh. "For me, it begins in… Spring, I believe. Yes, it was one of the last days of April…"

Anastasia's eyes became distant, as she recounted the events she had witnessed. Her voice was the only sound in the magical cocoon of silence Draco had summoned, and Hermione felt a shiver of anticipation crawl up her spine. Finally, another piece of the puzzle.

Raptly, she listened to what the Russian girl had to say.

"Before I begin, I must first explain where I come from. Dolohov lands lie deep in ze mountains of Ural, surrounded by spells of blood and earth. A thousand years my family has lived in that spot, and ze land has always treated us well. It guards us, conceals us…we feel it in our very bones. You must know what I speak of, yes, Draco?"

The Slytherin nodded. He knew exactly what she meant. Witches and wizards always leave a mark on the land they inhabit, and the land inevitably reciprocates that attachment. Over time (a span of generations, usually), such a bond can grow into something potent.

Draco felt that connection every time he was on the Malfoy family grounds; it was why, despite everything the ministry had put him through after the war, he had never left.

Satisfied with his assent, the Russian witch continued, "Our estate is difficult to find, and ze wards would never let a stranger in. So, you can imagine my surprise when I feel ze magic permit someone who I do not know pass unhindered! He introduce himself as Antonin, from the English side of our family. He ask to see _babushka._ You see," Anastasia explained, "my parents die when I very young, and she raise me _._ It is just me and her zere. Now, Antonin… I do not like him at once. Zer was this... madness at ze edges of his eyes. But, he is polite and he is blood, so I agree. I take him to _babushka._ "

Anastasia paused, taking a breath as the line advanced. Hermione glanced down at a path trodden by thousands of people and beasts. Impressions of feet, hooves, claws, and all sorts of animal prints were ground into the stone. Now hers, too, lay among them.

Anastasia's melodic voice resumed its tale, and Hermione listened on.

" _Babushka_ does not live on main property; she has her own hut, in woods. She is old and powerful witch – more powerful than you or I. She know many things. I bring Antonin to her, and I instantly see that she not like him either. But, again, he is blood, so vat can you do? _Babushka_ listen to him explain about some magical disease. He say zat zis Lord Voldemort put it inside him, and zat there are two parts: _Ze Other_ , as he calls it, and _Ze Key._ He ask _babushka's_ help in finding _Ze Key_ , because he knows not where it is. He say zat, when ze two parts are combined, no witch or wizard will be able to withstand ze spell's influence. He promise _babushka_ and me whatever power we want if we help him find it..."

The raven-haired girl shook her head in regret, and went on, expressively gesticulating with her hands during certain points.

"I have never seen my _babushka_ so angry, and she is, by no means, a saint. She is… product of her times, you understand? She did things that I would call bad today, but zey were ze norm ven she was young. But zis… ze sky became dark! She yell at Antonin, asking if he think we are two _idiotki,_ like we do not understand zat zis curse could be used against us. Then, she throw him out, and say zat if he ever show his vile mug here again, she will feed him to dogs."

Somewhat dreamily, Anastasia clarified: "We have six dogs, zey all cuddly, but he not know. Anyway, _Babushka_ tell him zis thing inside him is perversion of nature, and only reason she not kill him herself is he share our blood. She still hex him though, and he run away, yelping like beaten pup. It was very funny, but _babushka_ furious. She declare it shame a Dolohov fall like that..."

The last words were spoken quietly and with a hint of sadness, as Anastasia trailed off, thinking about the calamity that had befallen her relative. Hermione didn't say anything. Her own mind was busy digesting this new information. It confirmed most of what were only educated guesses by this point: that Antonin Dolohov, while spreading the virus, was actively in pursuit of its second half.

But where was it hidden? Neither she, nor Dolohov knew this _Key's_ location, but whichever party would find it first could dictate the path the world would take. Dolohov would lead it toward destruction, and she… she would preserve the status quo.

Sighing, she felt her mind's deliberations waver as bits of noise broke through Draco's muffling charm. The spell was starting to fade, its fabric being torn apart by the sheer amount of unstable magic around them. It was everywhere: saturating the air and the sky, playing in the notes of the satyr orchestra, laughing with the merry voices of drunk revelers.

Hermione gazed out over the lands beneath them. They were noticeably higher now, the line steadily inching upwards. The shrouded summit was still a ways away, but her new vantage point offered her a broader vision of the fires below. Spread out in some haphazard pattern, Hermione felt like there was an otherworldly logic to their arrangement, one that she could only garner a glimpse of.

Her musings were cut short when Anastasia reached into a small purse on her hip. From its confines, she withdrew a carved wooden flask, which, Hermione noticed, was larger than the purse itself. The girl intercepted her appraising look and smiled. "You like?" she asked. "Ze extension charm on ze purse – it's your work. You make it for me before you leave."

"I did?"

"Yes. It come in very handy on my travels. So, again, thank you," she said and then added, offering up the flask to the two Brits. "You want?"

"It's not vodka, is it?" Draco asked suspiciously, looking a little green. He still vividly recalled his liquor-fueled antics at the birthday party. Dancing with bears was fun, but not something he was keen on repeating...

Anastasia broke out in a laugh. "Vodka?!" she exclaimed merrily. Vith vat alcoholics have you been spending time, ah? No, just water. Come from natural spring near my home. Here, try."

Draco took a sip and passed the flask to Hermione. The water was cool and refreshing against her tongue, laced with strands of wild magic. It was like that sizzle from a carbonated drink, but it went deeper, revitalizing her whole body.

Hermione, thirst quenched, handed the flask back to Anastasia, who took a drink herself and then put it away.

"So," Hermione prompted, "what happened next? Where do I come in?"

Anastasia sighed. Somewhere ahead, a group broke out into a bouts of yelling and cheering. Above them, from the snowcapped peak, a wolfish prayer sang to the drunken moon. The story continued.

"I think about Antonin after he leave us. Such a waste of our name. As a month go by, however, I think of him less and less. Then, another month pass… It was late June when I feel another stirring of estate wards. Someone asking permission to enter. As I already say, we rarely get guests, so I become curious. I go see who it is… only find witch from England asking about my relative. You, Germiona."

Hermione recalled what she knew of her own movements at that time. "I was in Paris, at Lemmen's in the beginning of June," she remembered. "So, several weeks later I followed him to Russia, to Ural…"

"Indeed," Anastasia agreed. "You come to my home vith many questions. Ze fact zat you found its location was intriguing enough, so I take you to _babushka_ too."

"And then?"

"You talk and talk and talk. Eventually, you come to agreement. _Babushka_ brew potion on blood to find Antonin, and you put him out of his misery. Kvid pro kvo, as zey say."

"So that's how I found him." Hermione glanced towards Draco. "A blood connection. It's an obscure branch of magic, to be sure… Dark but immensely powerful. Did I leave immediately?"

"No," Anastasia replied with a grin. "Potion take two weeks to make, so you spend it at my place and help me with my vork. I have a… sanctuary on my lands for animals who are vounded by hunters or trappers. You like it very much!"

"Really?" Hermione asked disbelievingly. She had never been much for Care of Magical Creatures. Her domain was the library or an office; papers, parchment and stacks of books were the tools of her trade, not animal shears, splints or feed.

But Anastasia's eager nodding seemed to contradict that statement. "Yes!" she said excitedly. "You do great job! It therapeutic, you say. You like it so much, in fact, zat I even take you to fly on _drakosha!_ "

" _Drakosha?"_

"My pet dragon," Anastasia replied nonchalantly and then looked away as if it were nothing. Just that moment, a brilliant display of firecrackers lit up the night sky. Winged shapes dove up and down between the colorful explosions. Hermione paid them no heed; she was stunned. _She flew on a dragon? Again?!_ _What had she been_ – _drunk?!_

"Oh, Sweet Merlin, Hermione, " Draco used the illuminatory distraction to whisper into her ear, "I just realized what she is."

" _What?_ " the Gryffindor witch broke out of her stupor.

"She just said she _has a pet dragon!"_ Draco exclaimed in a lighthearted tone. "And, think about this: who else do we know had a pet dragon as well as an unhealthy penchant for anything that bites, stings, burns or tries to eat you in your sleep, huh?"

Hermione scowled. She had a fairly good idea of where _this_ was going.

Draco, undeterred by her disapproving mein, continued, "... _She's a Hagrid!"_ His eyes became wide with feigned, teasing horror. "A young, pretty _Hagrid!_ We have to take her out _now_ before she decides to go into teaching and manages to terrorize several generations of schoolchildren!"

"Oh, shut it, you!" she snapped, elbowing him in the ribs. Draco, who had just broken out into a fit of chuckles, choked. "Hagrid was a perfectly fine–"

"Pfft." Draco rubbed his now aching side, looking with alarm at Hermione's limbs. For someone so small, she packed quite a wallop. "Three words, Granger: _Blast-Ended Skrewts._ You really wanna argue this?"

Hermione's scowl intensified. Disagreeing with _Malfoy_ here was a matter of principle, but, alas, he had a point. Despite all of Hagrid's positive qualities as a person, the half-giant's teaching abilities were as good as his cooking, and there had been several occasions on which she had nearly broken her teeth on… well, she supposed she could call them 'cakes.'

The trio shuffled forward; the line of people and creatures evermoving. By this point, they had already circled the hill twice, and their destination – still concealed by a raging blizzard – was much closer.

Draco recast the muffling charm around them, and then cast it once again, just to show that he could. Hermione rolled her eyes. He treated his wand like a child would a new toy – always playing with it, eager to cast a spell, or two, or three. The wand seemed to never leave his grasp.

It made sense, of course, as he had been denied it for years. Also, Hermione could relate. The months before running into Draco on the train had forced her to live sans magic… and she was _not_ eager to repeat _that_ experience. Living as a muggle was dreadful.

So thinks the _muggleborn_ , she lamented to herself, glancing down at the arm which bore Bellatrix's scar. What irony.

These thoughts were gloomy and dark. Inevitably, they always led her to consider her own roots and to speculate on the location of her parents. She hoped they were happy, that they had maybe had another child, a little baby boy or girl who they could cherish and pamper.

She hoped for the best…but she would settle for them just being alive, and not unnamed victims of a war that they would have never been dragged into had their daughter not been a witch.

It was her all fault, she felt. Rationally, she understood the flaws in such reasoning, but then emotions rarely obey the laws of logic, don't they?

It was the sound of Anastasia's voice that broke her out of this despondent mood.

"You know," the Russian girl said, glancing away from the blooming fireworks, "you make friend zere."

"Mm? At your home?"

"At sanctuary," she smiled. "Little Boreal owl! He like you very much. Ven you leave, he go with you."

"Oh, Snows!" Hermione cooed, instantly aware of who Anastasia was referring to. She had only spent a little time with him, but Snows was already as dear to her as Crooks had been. "So that's where he comes from…"

"His ving had been broken," Anastasia told her gravely. "You sat vith him for ze whole two veeks, nursing him back to health vith your magic."

Thoughts of the little striped owl were enough to cheer her up. "I really like him," she admitted softly. "It's a shame he couldn't come with me here."

"He would have liked it, yes," Draco agreed. He, too, had met the little owl in Hermione's home and even fed him some meaty tidbits. After that, they had struck up a quick camaraderie.

Hermione smiled, inhaling a scent of frosty winter freshness. During their conversation, the line had edged on, and they had traveled high on the slopes of the hill. The blizzard was much closer now, and puffs of breath condensed in the nippy air, cooling into little pillows of cloud. A shiver of goosebumps cantered across Hermione's skin, but she wasn't cold. The refreshing bite in the air made her want to jump and dance, sing Christmas carols and tumble Draco down into a heap of snow, stuffing his pristine robes with white.

The last image made her heartbeat pulse with joy. It was possible, wasn't it? She shut her eyes closed, indulging in that fantasy for one brief moment, and then took several breaths to calm herself. Obligations come first; they always have…

"So," she asked, when her voice was steady. "Then, after two weeks, I left to confront Antonin?"

"Yes. I vanted to come vith you, but you absolutely forbid anything of ze sort! You say it is your war. I should not have let you go alone…" Anastasia lowered her gaze in shameful regret. "I am sorry."

"No, Nast'ya," the nickname came naturally to Hermione, as if she had used it many times before, "it's not your fault. I was too secretive in my mission, to consumed by the hunt. I'm paying a price for this now."

Anastasia shook her head, still blaming herself. "I zen leave for Kamchatka. I become locked away in my little vorld, vork only vith animals. I should have vent after you, check to see you okay. But I did not. I am not good friend."

"Stop this!" Hermione chided. "You're already a great friend by telling us everything. This fight, this war has been going on forever, and now you've given us a chance to finally end it! Your _babushka_ …would she be willing to brew the same blood potion again, so we can track Antonin down? It won't be just me this time…my friends, Harry, Ron, Draco here, and you too! We can all finish this story, together, once and for all!

The Russian witch perked up at these words, a ghost of a smile tracing her lips. "I vould like zat," she said and then raised her eyes in contemplation. " _Babushka…_ I think so, yes. She will make another potion if you and I ask, but not for free. You see, ven she make it ze first time, you make arrangement to kill my cousin in return. But he still alive; therefore, you do not uphold your side of bargain. So _Babushka_ will ask for something. What it is… I cannot tell you, but ze price may be steep."

"Whatever she asks," Draco practically growled, "I'm more than ready to share the burden."

Hermione beamed. He had changed so much…and she had too. What would their school pasts think of them now?

"Yes," she agreed, taking his hand into hers. "We'll pay whatever is necessary."

The line took another step forward, and the pair in front of them – the centaur and the mare – disappeared into a raging torrent of ice and snow.

They had finally approached the summit. The blizzard was right in front of them, and the Fae Queen – just beyond.

Hermione shivered. This night would change something; she knew it in her very bones. Taking a deep breath, the Gryffindor witch stepped forward and became lost.

Lost in a sea of blinding white.

* * *

 **This came out a bit later than I anticipated. But I'm already working on the next partttttttttttttt!**

 **If you review - thank you :)**


	30. A Shard of Ice

The barrier separating the Shabash and the blizzard – this line of demarcation, if you will – was surprisingly rigid, dividing the hill into rough, barren stone on one end and a wall of flurries on the other.

Years later, when she reminisced about this night, Hermione would always be drawn to that moment of stepping past the boundary to find herself in a remarkably different world. She would recall the savage, frozen-hearted wail of the northern winds whipping about her, tearing at the hem of her wool-coated robes, and covering her eyes, lips and cheeks in layers of frost. Gone were the smoky fumes of the Shabash, the drunken carousing of carefree individuals out for a night of pleasure. It was cold here.

Cold, desolate, lonely.

That was her initial impression, when the first breath was shockingly chilling and her pupils still wide, unadjusted to the sudden blinding light.

But the next breath came and then the next. Her pupils shrank, eyesight returning to normal, and she realized that while the blizzard still raged, she could not feel its full force. Its anger was tempered; the destructive power was held in check by an unbending alien will. If not for it, Hermione knew, she would be dead, a frigid corpse drowned in waves of white. Her magic was useless here.

But she was protected; in fact, she wasn't actually even cold. Her heart beat a staccato rhythm against her chest. Blood, warm and lifegiving, gushed through her veins. Her hand was held in a sturdy grip – Draco's. They had passed through the barrier together, as one.

She turned to him, placing her back to the winds. He yelled something, but she could not hear. The blizzard was too loud, and it promptly shoved a handful of snow down his open mouth. He sputtered, spitting it out, making her laugh. Anastasia appeared behind him, blinking and dazed, just as they had been. Draco reached out to pull her closer, doing the same to Hermione. The two girls hooked their hands into the crooks of his elbows, and, lowering their heads against the brunt of the storm, they trudged forward: Draco in the middle, Hermione and Anastasia at his sides.

Hermione could not say how long their journey lasted. A minute, a day, a year? The landscape was indistinguishable, unchanging, white upon white, making the passage of time a moo point. The wind roared and wailed, cruel and cold. It was a force of nature, and cared not for the plight of the living. It just was.

They went forward, always forward, never exchanging even a word, because it would have been pointless. Hermione couldn't see anyone else from the queue – it was just them, the wind, and the snow. But their path was right. This knowledge, just like the elements around them, simply was.

As their journey took them around piled mounds of snow and ice, Hermione wondered as to the inconsistencies around them.

First of all, the source of illumination came to mind. The slopes of Bald Hill had been bathed in shadow when they left; the moon perched high in a midnight sky. But now it was too bright for that, and, although the light appeared muted because of the snow-belching clouds, it was still more than any moon or sky of stars could conceive.

Secondly, the terrain had changed, becoming flat and low.

The third inconsistency was the most critical, although she had a significant difficulty in articulating it. It was all around her: in the air, the snow, the howling wind. All these things tasted exotic to her senses, like a concept that was similar, but different in execution. It wasn't wrong, just... off.

She could draw only one conclusion: this was not Bald Hill. But, that begged the question then: where was she?

...Was this even Earth?

Shivers that had nothing to do with the temperature snaked down her spine. Could this be possible? " _And why not?"_ her mind whispered.

A sharp intake of breath hitched in her chest, carrying a nip of chill to her lungs. She stumbled; Draco had to lean to the side to prevent her from falling, but she didn't even notice. Her consciousness was far away, floating on the ceaseless wonders that magic had to offer. Oh, it had its limits, yes; its mysteries and puzzles, but what miracles it could achieve in the proper hands! It could do so much… like open a passage to another world.

No muggle had ever gone this far. Decades of research and innovation, and what did they have to show for it? Several visits to a barren rock circling the Earth? She had gone further in just a few steps, because _this was the power of magic_. A power that she, out of the billions of humans on the planet, had been chosen for.

Oh, it did feel good to be a witch.

Closing her eyes, she let a wave of content wash over her soul, as Draco guided the three of them forward. Her mind wandered, contemplating the future, of what she could accomplish, and how she would change the world – the wizarding one.

Except, for the first time in years, she was not alone in these fantasies. There was a figure by her side, steadily steering her forward, just as he was now.

The next step changed everything yet again.

Quiet. It became quiet. But the change was so sudden, so rapid, that the resulting contrast in volumes made everything seem louder by comparison. Her body, without any adequate time to adjust, perceived the newfound silence as noise. Thundering in her ears, it sounded like water crashing down from unimaginable heights.

Hermione shut her eyes tighter, dispelling the sounds of silence, and focused on the little things: the gentle caress of a light breeze; the freshness of the air; the way her hair, windswept and wild, now prickled the back of her neck. And how empty her hand felt without Draco's fingers curled around hers. Draco wasn't here anymore.

She opened her eyes.

She had entered a clearing, a perfect circle in the middle of the storm – its eye. The sky was clear; only several clouds, like fluffy sheep, wandered across the field of blue. A few snowflakes casually drifted down, coasting through the air. One landed on the tip of her nose, melting into a fat droplet that hung for a moment and then slid down, making her nose itch.

After rubbing the itch away, she grasped a handful of her hair in one hand, her wand in the other, and whispered an incantation to calm the rioting curls. Honestly, the insufferability of her hair was…insufferable. Why did it challenge her so?

Still, she was a witch, was she not?

Once the inferior part of her genetics was put back into its proper place, and snow brushed off the front of her robes, Hermione raised her eyes to survey the land around her.

She stood alone. If Draco and Anastasia had exited the blizzard, it wasn't here. She felt no worry at this fact, however. Instead, a peaceful tranquility descended upon her shoulders. There was no rational explanation for this – she simply knew that her companions were safe. So, putting the mystery of their whereabouts aside, she focused on her immediate surroundings.

Nothing moved. The world was still, frozen into an unmoving panorama of white. Not a single tree, shrub, or any living thing seemed to inhabit this flat expanse, marked only by heaps of snow and the meandering trails between them. There was white, only white, spread across the land like a smothering blanket. It stretched endlessly in all directions, desolate and silent. Hermione shivered, a bite of fear replacing the otherworldly calm in her soul. She had never felt so inconsequential before. Everything she had done – the total aggregate of her actions and decisions, her hopes and her dreams, her very individuality and who she was as a person – it meant nothing before this empty vastness. Nothing.

Was this what it felt like to stand before the eyes of God?

And then she blinked. And movement came. For there _was_ life here; it just took a little time to notice it.

It began with the snowflakes. She saw them again, twirling down from the heavens, where a distant and feeble sun gleamed with a worn-out light. It was smaller here – more proof that this was, maybe, another world. She breathed in the air, crisp with winter freshness, and exhaled a cloud of vapor that settled on her clothes, promptly turning to frost.

She saw no signs of the blizzard she had crossed to get here; it had quietly disappeared, as if it had only been a figment of her imagination. Had it even been real? Was any of this real?

"Is that what you think?" a voice rumbled behind her. "That this land is a slave to your perceptions?"

It took all of Hermione's will to remain standing and not fall to her knees. Her recent feelings of insignificance were dwarfed in comparison to what she felt now. She was microscopic: a twig caught in a maelstrom; a leaf on the edges of a tornado, about to be swept up into the maw of the vortex. Taking very slow and deliberate breaths, Hermione lowered her gaze to the ground. There, snow rose into little twisters, carried by an invisible wind. Her lips became dry. Hermione traced her tongue over them, clenching her hands into fists to prevent her fingers from trembling.

"No," she finally managed to rasp out. "I hold no sway here, I know that."

Mirthlessly, the voice chuckled behind her. It was a terrible sound; not due to some malevolence, but because of how uncaring and powerful it was, like an avalanche baring down on a group of hapless adventurers. It was a force of nature, neither good nor evil. Just as the world around her, it simply was.

"Indeed, you do not," the voice agreed. "Still, few manage to gaze upon these lands. My ever-vigilant subjects see fit to guard this place, although it is not necessary."

"Your subjects?" Hermione asked, scared but insatiably curious. She was slowly becoming accustomed standing next to this source of unbridled energy. She had never tried, but imagined this was what surfing felt like. If one were to surf on a tidal wave, that is.

"Hail, Snow, Blizzard, Ice, and so many others," the Fae Queen of Winter – there was no doubt as to her identity anymore – answered. "You passed them, albeit with a little guidance."

Hermione remembered the alien will that protected her and her friends from the storm. The one that had let her pass, but not Draco or Anastasia.

"You let me come here," she whispered, "but not my friends."

"They held no interest to me."

"But I did?"

A breath of ice tickled the skin near the back of her ear. Its frigid touch sent waves of goosebumps crashing down her body, over her chest and back.

"You corrected an imbalance once," a perplexing reply sang across fields of snow and ice. "You righted a wrong."

Hermione scrunched her face up in thought. She had done many things over the years, but 'righting a wrong' that caught the attention of a Fae Queen?

The voice sighed, a whiff of a hurricane, and explained, "Observe the lands before you. They appear lifeless, do they not? And yet, the cold that rules them is part of a pattern, one which governs all, from the Gods themselves to bacteria in the dust of flesh. Even my sister and I bow before its might. Each year, we chase each other, but have no hope of ever meeting; it is our destiny. When her power starts to wane, mine begins to grow, and the lands turn cold. The plants freeze; they wither and die, and yet in their end lies the seed of a new beginning. To die is to live – that is the law."

"And to circumvent that law–" Hermione guessed.

"–Is an affront to Nature herself." The voice became angry, pounding in her ears. "A human is not meant to cheat death by stealing life. It wrecks the fabric of reality, cuts it deep with wounds most foul. You removed that infection, healed the rift; you sutured the edges."

"Harry did that," Hermione whispered, her throat as dry as her lips. "Harry dueled him, he killed–"

She was interrupted by that inhuman chuckle again, as if the Queen was amused. "And did you not contribute to this deed?"

"I fought for my life," weakly, Hermione protested. "I fought for my friends."

"Of course, you did. And, in doing so, you were an instrument of order, working against the agents of chaos. You were chosen for this, Hermione Granger, just as you were chosen to be a witch. It is your fate."

The words reverberated through the Gryffindor's soul, chipping away at her beliefs with picks of ice. She had always scoffed at Divination, at the idea of a predetermined future. _She_ decided her future…didn't she?

"I will not say you hold no dominion over your life, human. But the end of the world will come when it must."

Hermione, feeling oddly reassured by these words, looked over the frozen tundra pondering the twists and turns that brought her here. Her earlier theory burned in her mind, the question resting on the tip of her tongue, eager to get out. True to her nature, Hermione didn't even try preventing it from escaping her lips.

"Is this Earth?" she asked, heart fluttering, as she felt the presence of the Queen move to stand abreast of her. She did not tear her eyes away from the view, nor tilt her head to look; it felt sacrilegious in some way to gaze upon the force beside her.

"Yes," the Queen said. Hermione's shoulders sagged in disappointment. She'd been wrong, again. The idea of another world had all been in her head. Magic wasn't all-powerful, after all.

"...and no." Hermione stilled, listening raptly. "This is a version of Earth," the Queen's voice continued. "How it once was…and how it will be yet again."

Hermione glanced over the never-ending snow and ice that stretched in every direction, glistening sadly under the rays of a dim sun. The Queen had said the world would end…and this looked very much like it.

"It is the way," she heard. "To live is to die." Hermione left it at that – what more was there to add? The unlikely pair stood there for a moment, listening to the soft patter of snowflakes drifting to the ground and the crunch of snow under Hermione's feet as she shifted her weight.

"Do you feel it?" The Queen suddenly asked, shattering the silence. "In your left hand."

Hermione raised it high, squinting through the sun's rays to look at a palm that had been burning ever since that strange moment when she woke up at the Shabash.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A gift. From a lesser being. It's rather rare they give one freely to your kind."

"I can't see or touch it."

The echo of an answer rang across shards of broken ice, sharp as glass, "The time is not yet right."

"And what will it do when it is?" Hermione lowered her hand, blinking several times to get rid of light spots in her eyes.

The Fae Queen paused, as if contemplating some thought. Hermione noticed that the horizon was becoming darker, the wind picking up. The temperature plummeted.

"She who gave it to you is a daughter of fire, and the gift bears her traits," the Queen answered cryptically. "It can hold many forms, but I fear that all will be useless to you. You see, child, fire, despite its power, burns, devouring what it touches, and without something to temper its hunger, can easily spiral out of control. It will not give what you want."

Hermione recalled the monstrous forms of fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement. Draco's friend had died that day, consumed by flame…

"But the cold," the Queen continued, "the cold preserves. It can keep someone who is on the very brink of death alive, for a time, at least. Fire and ice. There is a balance there. What do you know of polar magics?"

"That…they rarely mix," Hermione said, frantically recalling the paucity of information she had read on the subject. "And, when they do, the result is usually destructive."

"That is true," the Queen agreed. "Putting opposites together often yields a volatile reaction. But, in some rare cases, they can combine, and the resulting spell is magnitudes stronger. Fire and ice, child." Hermione felt the weight of a necklace settle around her neck, carrying some object – long and narrow – which now lay between her breasts. Her skin became numb at the touch, but then the feeling passed, and the weight went away. "Remember: fire to burn, ice to preserve, and blood to catalyze. Put them together, complete the pattern, and they may return that which you think is already gone."

Hermione had no time to ponder these remarks: the storm was approaching rapidly, already covering up half the sky. It loomed over her lithe form, its stormy fingers chasing away the last meagre rays of light, blocking out the sun. Gusts of wind tore at her hair, whipping it about her head.

A tempest was coming.

"The last traces of my sister are leaving," the Queen's voice boomed, radiating a increasing strength. "Summer has departed, and my servants are free to ride, heralding my return! I come late this year, and they are impatient! You will go with them, as my entourage."

Hermione wasn't sure if the last part was a question or command; all she knew was that refusing was not an option. Goosebumps coated her body head to toe; her breath froze on the frigid air; eyelashes were heavy from ice.

"My friends," she managed to choke out, "can they come with me?"

"They may…Now, fly, child, fly and remember my words! _Fly!"_

Whatever remnants of chains had been holding the elemental being shattered; an explosion of ice rocked the ground, hurling Hermione into the air. Propelled into a parabolic arc, the Gryffindor shrieked, desperately reaching for her wand to cast something… anything! Her hand was halfway to her holster, when she froze. With eyes wide from horror, she observed the debris of the explosion moving, melding together, and growing into the form of a giant wolf! Hermione yelled again, and this time her voice was met with howling laughter. The sound was familiar – it was the same one she had heard while waiting on the slopes of Bald Hill.

The newborn wolf, sporting a coat of ivory and a scar running down the side of his muzzle, squared up, launched into the air, and caught Hermione by the folds of her robes, only to toss her onto his back. Stunned, she landed onto the soft fur, feeling broad muscles contract below her thighs as the wolf lunged upwards, into the sky. It took several moments for her heart to start beating again, and the ringing in her ears to subside.

She might have been in shock, but the stormy front was right on their heels, advancing towards her and… her friends!

Draco, she thought! Anastasia! She needed to get to them before they were buried!

Leaning forward towards the wolf's head, she yelled, "Can you find them? Can you take them too?"

A part of the wolf's lip curled upwards in an amused smirk. He growled, charging through the air, his paws as comfortable on it as the ground. The wolf and the rider raced through the skies, wind whistling in their ears. They flew on wings of need, so fast that Hermione's eyes grew teary.

Surging ahead of the winter gale, the pair charged towards Draco and Anastasia.

Towards the world of men.

* * *

 **moo.**


	31. I Won't Be Afraid

**I'm conflicted about warnings and I'm also a bit stumped as how to write them.  
**

 **This chapter and the next one get dark. They deal with the subject of Hermione's assault. It begins when the tense changes to present with the words 'I won't be afraid'.**

* * *

Hermione, astride a giant wolf, burst out from behind a cover of clouds, and the look on Draco's face was priceless. She quickly took a mental snapshot, storing the memory for future occasions. His mouth was hanging open – so wide that she was afraid his jaw had become stuck. He rubbed his eyes, pinched himself, and then, when two more airborne wolves appeared, actually stumbled backwards and collapsed into a snowbank.

Anastasia saw this, smirked, and promptly stuffed several handfuls of snow down his collar. As if the blizzard wasn't enough.

Draco froze, staring at the Russian girl with a mixture of outraged indignance and betrayal, which was quickly replaced by steely determination. After all...

 _This._

 _Meant._

 _War!_

He roared and then quickly jumped to his feet, packing together the biggest snowball the world had ever seen. He was fully committed to the idea of unmitigated retribution. Anastasia, realizing she might have bitten off more than she could chew, shrieked and sprinted away, yelling that it would be completely unchivalrous for such a noble gentleman like Draco to retaliate on an innocent girl. The 'noble gentleman' in question huffed and packed on more mass onto his monstrosity of a projectile. There wasn't a single hint of impending mercy in his actions.

It's unknown where this juvenile squabble could have led, had not (much to Draco's chagrin and Anastasia's glee) it been concluded by the carnivorous pack's arrival. With a look of childish disappointment, Draco let his snowball drop to the ground. He looked on sadly as it rolled away, thinking that girls usually do get away with these sorts of things…

Fortunately, the wolfish guests provided for a compelling distraction, and both Draco and Anastasia ran up to Hermione, the former still scooping handfuls of wet snow out of his clothes. He glowered at the raven-haired girl that was the cause of his misfortune, but then turned his gaze, shining with amazement and admiration, towards the Gryffindor witch.

Her heart skipped a beat.

"Where did you… _When_ did you…" he stuttered.

"Who are your friends?!" Anastasia exclaimed, interrupting him. The wolves seemed to like her; one gave a sloppy lick on the chin and let her scratch him between the ears. Hermione was glad to see that her own steed exhibited no such signs of puppish infatuation. He was aloof; just like her.

"What in Merlin's name, Hermione?!" Draco finally found his tongue. "You were right there with us! And then you're suddenly up high, flying on… what kind of wolves are these, anyway?! They're huge!"

Hermione responded with an impish smile that highlighted the dimples on her rosy cheeks. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Witch's secret," she said, giving him a coquettish wink, but then blushed at her own boldness and grew more serious. "We don't have much time, though. There's a storm coming!"

"A storm?!" Draco looked at her like she was crazy. "Hermione, look around: we're already in a storm!"

"Ha!" Anastasia barked from the side, still absorbed with tracing her fingers through patches of wolfish fur. "Silly English vizard! You call zis storm?! You come to Ural – I show you real storm!"

"She's right, Draco," Hermione agreed. "Come, I'll explain later. We have to go now; we have to be ahead of it!"

"Ok, but, wait, you mean… on those?!" Incredulous, he pointed at the wolves.

Hermione gave him a look that was more befitting of a Slytherin than a studious Gryffindor bookworm. "What," she taunted with a cheeky smirk, " _scared?_ "

Draco puffed his chest up like a baboon. Scared of flying?! He was a quidditch star, and those times against Potter didn't count! Besides, if a _girl_ could ride on a wolf, then so could he!

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

The Slytherin, as it turned out, was a well full of surprises. When Hermione heard him christen his wolf 'Akella', her eyebrows rose halfway up her forehead.

"I didn't know know you read Kipling!" she exclaimed, both astonished and proud that he'd given muggle literature a chance.

Draco looked at her with a confused expression. "What?" he asked. "Who's Kipling?"

Hermione realized that you shouldn't assume things. It makes you look like an idiot.

"' _Who's Kipling?'_ ," she sputtered. "I… you… why'd you name him like that?"

"What, 'Akella'?" Draco explained with a shrug to his shoulders, "One of the teens that worked with me at McDonalds kept watching these movie things on his phone. He showed me one with a whole jungle: there was some naked kid and a bear, a puma, a wolf, and a snake. The snake and the wolf were pretty cool, so I remembered their names. Kaa! Kaa! And Akella."

"Yes," Hermione agreed, indignant that someone could be so unappreciative towards one of her favorite children's books, "and that movie is based on Rudyard Kipling's novel! It's a wonderful work of fiction!"

Draco wasn't really paying any attention to her words anymore; he was sitting on a giant wolf! Weasley would eat his broom if he saw. So he responded offhandedly with a single, unimpressed word.

"Whatever."

Hermione saw red.

"And what does _that_ mean?!" she seethed, grinding her teeth together in a way that her parents would have certainly disapproved of. Her tone of voice was very distinctive – one which all men instinctively fear from their significant others. Draco picked up on it, registered he had crossed some sort of line, and quickly backpedaled. "Ughh… I mean..." he started to stammer, trying to recall what she had said. He was halfway successful. "No, I agree, it was, um, very good… yeah, and, anyway, the kid got fired a week into his job. Funny that."

Hermione sighed and let the stream of panicked babbling distract her. It would be pointless to quarrel over such a mundane thing. "Really?"

"Oh yeah," Draco confirmed, feeling relieved. "Couldn't tear his eyes away from the phone, kept mixing up orders. You know," he added reflectively, "such silly creatures, those muggles. They keep inventing all these funky gadgets, but all they're good for is wasting your time."

Hermione clucked her tongue. Couldn't really argue with that.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

The 'real' storm was almost upon them when they took to the skies. Anastasia whooped; Draco picked up the cry, and even Hermione joined in. The rapid ascent caused her stomach to drop, her eyes to sting, and her soul to break out in song. There was something in this flight that added onto the uninhibited manner of the Shabash, breaking the remnants of any restriction or fear.

She yelled, feeling the breath freeze in her lungs and spread with winter sweetness. Flurries of snow circled around them, waltzing in graceful accord. For a second, Hermione's eyes focused on Anastasia, riding her own wolf, hair streaming behind her form in a current of silk. She felt a stab of envy at the sight. Why couldn't she have hair like that? Did Draco still consider her 'bushy-haired'? He'd certainly teased her enough over it at Hogwarts…

Was it pretty enough for him now? Would he like it more if she wore it up? It'd take some work, but she could...

Hermione blinked, bringing this train of girlish insecurities to a halt. She was too mature to be its victim… right?

Her eyes responded by flitting away from Anastasia and roaming towards Draco's frame, taking in the broad shoulders and the smooth plane of his chest. He was leaning forward against the wind, exuding such an alluring manner of self-confidence that it sent a tremor of buzzing warmth down to her loins. Looking at him, one would never guess this was his first time on a wolf. Draco took it all in stride.

The wizard must have felt her gaze, because he turned his head to give her a grin. Hermione reveled in the way his eyes wandered, pausing at her hips and chest. For the first time in years, such a gaze evoked no palpable disgust. She felt wanted, and it was the best thing in the world!

Feeling the traces of a blush creep up her cheeks, she looked away, heart thudding. What a night.

The fur under her fingers was soft in places, prickly in others. The wolf's muscles danced between her thighs as he leaped over clouds of naked snow. These tactile touches were sinful, wrong in every which way. She savored them all.

The wolf howled, the others melding their voices to his – notes hungry and deep, a harmony of the wild. They sped up, clouds of vapor parting from panting mouths. Faster and faster they ran, until Hermione could see no more. Her eyes were shut, the air whistling freely in her ears, a crust of snow on her face. A breath, a gasp, a shriek..!

They burst out of the blizzard.

The fires, the haze. Stirring satyr melodies. Hermione opened her eyes. She was back at Bald Hill.

For a second, she could not hear a thing. It was the quiet before the storm. She stared down at the queue of people wound around the hill and smirked. They wouldn't get anywhere. Only she had been chosen.

The silence stretched – a heartbeat, an eternity – and shattered. The time had come.

The storm was here.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Clouds of winter burst through the barrier in a stream of bubbly foam, filling up the tipsy sky beneath. On the ground, people and beasts shrieked, but it was not a cry of panic. On the contrary, it was a cheer, appreciative and celebratory. They raised their glasses to praise the new season; they bellowed and laughed and tumbled down into rapidly growing snowbanks. A snowman was quickly moulded together, a saggy carrot for his nose and another for his… hmph. He stood on the field, marshaling his troops with arms of oak as well as his other appendage.

The tomcat meowed; the mermaids giggled, falling grains of vanilla melting among locks of summer cream. The fumes were blown away, but the fires remained – they would burn bright till dawn, offering warmth and shelter for any living creature.

More wolves appeared in the sky, whole packs, gray and black and white. They carried beings of blue skin and charcoal eyes. Mustering their unconventional steeds, the riders charged ahead of the storm's front. They were shepherds of the cold, the heralds of change. Spears of frost and lightning flashed in their hands, as they divided streams of cloud into the directions of a compass, spreading out to the north, the east, the west, and the south.

Winter's wings would unfurl over the world tonight; her dominion unchallenged till that moment when the days grow long, and lungwort starts to peek through snowmelts, blooming with a noble hue.

But, till then, the months would be cold, the nights long, and the landscape white.

Our trio shared a glance and decided steal a slice of the pie for themselves. A pair of blue-skinned fae dared challenge them, lifting weapons with threatening glares, but then hastily retreated in the face of three pointed wands. The humans snickered triumphantly, their wolves echoing such sentiments with barks of wild amusement.

And just like that, the two witches and a wizard became the sole proprietors of several square miles of pregnant nimbostratus, ready to blanket the world in shades of ivory and eggshell.

"Where to?" asked Draco.

Hermione closed her eyes and pointed in a random direction.

"That way," she said, and her wolf howled in agreement. He wanted to run, to dash, to blaze through the sky like a comet ripping through orbit. Hermione felt his eagerness boil in her own blood. "Let's go," she whispered.

And they took off.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Their wolves were the ideal sheepdogs, nipping at wisps of cloud that tried to stray away. Hermione would trace their path later, never finding the point of origin, but recalling the cities they visited by the landmarks she saw. They flew over countryside at first, coating miles of field and forest with a thick blanket of snow. The winds below blew and raged, causing pine and spruce to bend like the masts of a ship caught in a squall. She remembered passing several small towns, dark, a few cars rolling on, their headlights lonely pinpricks in the vast ocean of the night.

More lights grew in the distance, as stacks of blocky socialist-era housing loomed from the ground – the suburbs of a larger city. They gave way to a more scenic center, host to buildings of medieval and even byzantine times. Hermione observed churches with steeples and rotundas, monuments, market halls, and government buildings flying the Bulgarian flag.

Sofia, she thought, placing their location. Victor had grown up in a community not far from here, before he left to become a quidditch phenomenon at 17. He'd been her first crush, but that had passed long ago.

Instead, she looked at Draco, just ahead of her, and her heart fluttered.

They passed Sofia, going north-west, to Belgrade and Budapest. Then, west, crossing into Austria, the Danube sparkling below them in slivers of moonlight haze. Hermione saw the banks of the river thicken and freeze as clouds rolled in, belching snow. She idly wondered if there had been any muggle weather forecasts warning people about the abrupt change in temperature. The sudden snow and ice was bound to leave people stranded; to collapse electrical lines, causing outages; to leech the life out of those caught without shelter.

Her past self would have been horrified, but she felt no pity for these people, nor the inevitable damages. She was the storm, the wailing gale, changing the land how she saw fit. A violent tempo beat in her blood as the wolves cried their glee to a cynical moon. She felt alive and free, unrestricted by chains of morality.

For nature knows no morals, no good or evil. Those are concepts for humans; rationalizations and compromises our feeble race requires to make sense of the world around us. Nature is simple. Nature is power.

Crossing the Alps, Hermione accepted this. She was part of something bigger; more than just Hermione Granger, bookworm and fighter.

She was free.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Anastasia left them somewhere above Innsbruck. She had been glancing longingly to the east for quite some time now. Hermione recalled that her friend had spent almost half a year away… she was homesick. Nudging her wolf closer to Anastasia's, Hermione whispered that she should go.

"But, ze potion…" the girl weakly protested.

"You can find us in St. Petersburg," Hermione offered. "And we'll go from there."

Anastasia memorized the address of their hotel, and then hugged Hermione, giving her a peck on the cheek. She almost fell off her wolf while doing so, and Draco had to ride up to assist. Anastasia blushed.

Hurriedly, and not looking at Draco, she waved her goodbyes, promising to come tomorrow, by noon, and rode off towards where in several hours time a rosy glow would tinge the horizon. Hermione watched her leave, lifting a palm to the place where Anastasia's lips had grazed her skin. It had given her an oddly pleasurable feeling, leaving her both stunned and baffled at the implications.

 _I'm just more sensitive tonight,_ she thought, trying to analyze her feelings with clinical detachment. _Years of trauma-induced sexual repression combined with the uninhibiting and, frankly, stimulating events of this evening. It's bound to cause some confusion._

She instantly wiped her mind clean – some things are better left forgotten. There was no trauma.

Fortunately, a different memory came, flirtatiously hazy and vague: _silky sighs over flickering coals… a woman's lustful gaze… the arch of her back, chest thrust brazenly forward, exposed to the world… a man reaching up, drowning in passion, his soul ripping away..._

Hermione gasped, feeling someone's fingers brush on her skin, gently tucking a curl behind her ear. Heart beating wildly, she turned to stare right into Draco's gaze. It burned with intensity, sending waves of heat crashing through her body. He was so close, looking at her like she was the entire world.

"I want to show you something," he whispered. "Follow me?"

Not trusting her mouth to say the right words, Hermione just nodded.

The last of their clouds were spent over Zurich, and the wolves, free of their shepherding burden, picked up the pace. They galloped across a moonlit sky, the world below resplendent in its new dress. A dress of white... the sign of purity and new beginnings.

 _Perhaps,_ Hermione thought, looking at Draco's back. _Perhaps..._

She realized where Draco was taking her long before they arrived at their destination.

Paris. The city of lights, which they had left after only several days, and she had lamented at being unable to experience it as a tourist. Oh, to creep through its nooks and crannies! To witness its splendor and drown in its history! Draco – the same boy who had mercilessly bullied her for years – had remembered and brought her back...

They landed onto a platform at the top of the Eiffel tower, the sleeping city stretching beneath them in every direction. Hermione tapped her wand against the railing, clearing away the snow, and leaned against it, captivated, as she turned her head to wonder at the lit facades of the Arc de Triomphe, the Cathedral of Notre Dame, as well as the wide boulevard of the Champs-Elysees.

"It's beautiful," she whispered. "It is," Draco agreed, but he wasn't looking at the city.

His eyes were focused on her.

Butterflies in her stomach, Hermione turned to meet them. He was standing close, pupils dark and dilated. He reached forward to cup his hands around her, sliding his palms to small of her back. They were large, possessive, holding her firmly, but not pushing. He left that decision up to her.

 _I won't be afraid._

And a choice is made.

She takes the step forward, hesitant and and shy, tilting her head higher, so that their breaths mingle together, puffs of vapor settling on fur-lined robes. Draco leans in, the steady pressure of his body rubbing against hers in all the right ways, eliciting a surprised gasp from her lips.

The warmth of his breath counters the sharp intake of frigid air, and then it's too late to think, to fear, because his lips are tasting hers; they're soft and gentle, and they send her heart hammering through her chest. Her arms go up on their own, tugging at the folds of his robes, needing to feel him, touch him. His scent is tantalizing: rich, masculine, there's a touch of spice from cologne. Smells of the Shabash linger as well – the smoke, the wine... the sensual aroma of guiltless sex.

A nip at her bottom lip brings a sting of pain, unexpected and delightful. Her lips part instinctively, yielding to a primal demand. She feels his tongue, a caress of chiffon, light touches that make her knees go weak with desire. A desperate mewl comes from somewhere deep. There's a heat under her skin, a smouldering want that pools between her creamy thighs. Draco retreats, but just a little bit, an incessant tease. He peppers the edges of her mouth with kisses, moving along her jawline, down to her neck. She angles her head to give him better access, as playful bites send tingles of longing down her spine. Longing to be held, touched… made love to.

 _She can do this._

They stand still, chests heaving. The moon's soft glow dances in stormy eyes. Hermione feels warm and light, ready to float away.

"Do you… do you…" Draco fumbles for words, but she understands him perfectly. She presses a finger to his lips and quickly nods. "I do."

Saying those words sends a powerful feeling coursing through her body. _She makes this decision. She's in control._

The wolves leave them at the entrance of a hotel and howl their goodbye. Their gaze is ancient, knowing. Hermione gives her evening's companion a hug, and then he leaps away into the sky, returning to his world. A lonely muggle on the street jumps at the _whoosh_ of air, and then swears when two people suddenly appear out of nowhere. The muggle crosses himself and promises that, this time, he will quit drinking for sure.

Hermione is nervous and giddy as they enter and make their way to the reception desk. The hotel worker is perfectly professional, but he knows why they're here and processes them quickly. Hermione feels sinful that their intentions are so transparent. She blushes and looks away. Her foot keeps tapping against the floor, Draco's palm burning between her shoulderblades. Their key in hand, he guides her to the lifts.

They're kissing each other before the doors even close. The feeling of closeness, of togetherness, is intoxicating, and Hermione can't stop her hands from their ceaseless exploration. His robes – so elegant before – are now cumbersome and obstructive. She wants to feel his skin, to glide her hands over the tuned muscles of his abs and back.

The doors open, and they stumble through, groaning at the interruption. Hermione gasps when he reaches down, grasping the globes of her buttocks, kneading them with long and delicate fingers. Two can play at this game, she thinks with a roguish grin and grinds into him, hips dancing with a primitive passion born in a time when the first men still huddled behind sticks of meagre flame, seeking sanctuary from the dark. Draco hisses, biting his lips, as evidence of his male virility strains through layers of clothes. Hermione knows it's a response to her, just her. A burst of fire floods her veins, and she relishes in the power she wields over him. She feels wickedly risque, a temptress of the night.

"Pardon."

They tear away from each other, cheeks coloring crimson. An elderly gentleman raises an eyebrow and walks past them into the lift. "Bonne nuit," he wishes them, eyes twinkling. The doors close; Hermione's face is burning – caught snogging by a stranger in the hallway of a hotel! She should be ashamed. Her eyes meet Draco's, and an unwilling chuckle escapes. It breaks the floodgates, and then they're doubling over from laughter, relishing in the liberation it brings. How can something be shameful if you can laugh at it?

They race together to their room, insert the key, and tumble through. Draco doesn't turn on the lights; his hands are busy cupping her face, pressing his lips to her eyelids, her nose, her neck. Hermione revels in the way each sensation is amplified, a drug that she never wants to end. She grasps the clasp of his robes and rips it open, frantically, throwing off this cursed garment.

Draco pauses suddenly, leaning back. She freezes: has she done something wrong? But that question vanishes under the scorching look of his half-hooded eyes.

"You're so beautiful, Hermione," he whispers, and her souls sings in response.

His touches are tender, an age-old custom that has persisted since the dawn of life. Savoring every moment, she tugs off her robes, and he helps her remove her sweater. Her heart is beating wildly, a bird in its gilded cage. She lifts her hands, tracing the angle of his jaw with the palm of her hand, prickly stubble scratching her skin. His lips crash down on hers again, as he reaches for the hem of her shirt.

 _It really happening,_ she thinks with triumphant relief, _I can! I can!_

Her shirt goes over her head, rising waves of goosebumps waxing on naked skin. A sliver of embarrassment peaks through; shyly, she averts her eyes. She's never been like this, and doesn't know what Draco has imagined, but there's nothing special about her, nothing sexy. Her bra is simple; plain and practical, its color is a little off from one too many washes. She's not like a girl from one of those fashions mags that men enjoy to look at. She's not special or pretty or–

"Hermione," he gasps, awed, and she looks up. His eyes are glued to the top of her breasts, admiration and hunger warring within them. The insecurities flee, and the corners of her lips edge up, as she raises her hands to unbutton his shirt. He presses into her, devouring her mouth, his arms around her, pushing her with his body. She staggers backwards, elated at the way his skin is molding to hers, hits the edge of the bed with the back of her knees and then falls onto the silky bedsheets.

Happiness and desire sing in her blood.

Draco follows, covering her with his body.

She gasps.

 _No._

His hands and lips are continuing their movements, but the pleasure has fled. Cold rods of terror, nails on a dogwood cross, pierce her skin. The past is tearing into the present, bringing the one memory she fears above all others… the one she has kept locked away for years, pretending it simply doesn't exist.

It's the cellar. The silver-masked man.

 _This will not control me. No, please. No! Not now!_

She tries to hold onto reality, to deny the fight or flight response, but she can't. Her sanity begins to drown in a quagmire of fear. She can't even move, can't breath. Draco is still on top, his weight pinning her down. Just like _he_ pinned her down. But this is Draco! Her Draco! _He's_ not here. Not here! Her eyes are shut, lungs burning.

" _Stop, please!" she begs. "Please!" He grunts and laughs._

Draco's hand reaches to cup a breast through her bra. She jerks, desire gone, eyes panicked. Her lips twist grotesquely, a grimace of fear.

 _His hands, tearing at her robes, her shirt. "No!" she screams. He hits her, hard. The taste of copper in her mouth. Blood on split lips._

This is Draco, this is not _him_ ; this is Draco, Draco, Draco...

" _Please don't," she whimpers. "Please… no. no. No."_

Draco looks up, confused, noticing her stillness. She doesn't see him; it's too late, he's pressing her down, locking her into a cage, not letting her breath… She needs to get out, to run, run… It's dark, so dark. Just like it was back _there._ Is that where she is? Back? Has _he_ come for her again? Why does it smell like this? Why does she feel it again? Why?!

 _The smell of rot. The touch of dirt. Her knees, forced apart._

 _ **NO.**_

Magic explodes from her form, brutal and raw. It flings Draco away, sending him flying through the air to crash into the opposite wall with a sick crunch. The wooden cabinets explode, the plasma TV shatters. Bits of shrapnel batter the walls as the mirror over the vanity is pulverized into dust. It spills onto the carpet and what is left of the chair, grains so sharp they can cut to the bone.

Hermione opens her eyes, sees the devastation. Draco slumps down to the floor, unmoving. She did this. This is her fault. Frantically, she scuttles off the bed, fleeing into a corner. Tugging her arms around her knees, she compresses into a tiny ball. _He_ can't see her this way, can't hurt her. She chokes out a hoarse sob, her body trembling, rocking back and forth.

Back and forth.

"Don't," she whimpers again, just like she did all those years ago. "Please, don't…"

Tears come, unbidden, falling from the edges of her eyes, trails of despair etching into puffy cheeks. Pitifully, she cries.

She cries there, in that corner, under the garish light of a morning sun. She weeps for a girl that was robbed of something precious and beautiful. A girl that hurts so much and has never healed.

She trembles in that corner.

She trembles and cries.


	32. Canned Peaches, Sugary-Sweet

Darkness swam in front of his eyes, oily waves over depths of gloom. There was a shape there, below the waters, staring at him with a sinister grin. It was swimming towards him, coming closer, closer…

Closer.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Draco's vision returned incrementally, and he blinked several times, dispelling the darkness and helping the room come into focus. He was lying on the floor, the back of his head pulsing with pain. Feeling woozy, he lifted a hand to find a rapidly growing lump. His fingers came away sticky and wet, covered in blood. He coughed and then slowly, using the wall for support, got to his feet.

Merlin's fucking gigantic balls… what happened?

The room was in shambles. Knives of morning light cut through the curtains, exposing signs of destruction. The bed had collapsed, cabinets were torn to shreds, and remnants of one of those things muggles watched movies on littered the floor in a thousand pieces.

A whimper, muted and full of anguish, came from a corner somewhere. Draco's eyes snapped towards the direction of the sound. Hermione! Was she alright?!

He found her in a corner, and his chest chest constricted at the sight. Her thin and pale frame was being wracked by sobs. Draco stumbled over, stepping over bits of debris.

"Her… Hermione?" he croaked, his throat dry.

She didn't respond, rocking slowly. Her eyes were brimming with tears, swollen lips covered in blood. She had bit them over and over again.

Draco looked around helplessly, uncertain of what to do. How does one ease such raw agony?

"Hermione?" he tried again.

She didn't respond, burying her nose deeper between her knees.

"Hermione," he repeated a third time, and, gently, as if she were the most precious thing in the world, tried to place his hand on her shoulder.

She gasped and jerked away, cowering in that corner like some mistreated animal in the face of its master's whip. Draco kept his hand, feeling her body tremble beneath his touch. His heart beat a thousand times per minute. "Hermione," he repeated again. "It's ok."

"It's alright..."

He kept whispering her name, slowly, soothingly, feeling her ease with every movement of his lips. Sobs subsided; the shaking quelled. She raised her head with slow uncertainty. Her eyes were blotchy, nose red, and hair tangled into a messy mass. She looked nothing like the girl that journeyed on a wolf, laughing among a sea of stars, or that kissed him with lips so passionate and warm. Few people look pretty under the duress of sorrow. It's one of humanity's great equalizers, uniting those graced with beauty with the many who lack it.

"Shhh," he hushed, feeling the muscles in her shoulder untense one scintilla more. She turned her head, and, for the first time, seemed to recognize him. Staring at him like he was a ghost, she paled and knocked his hand away. Draco backed off, bracing against the wall.

"Oh, God," she whimpered, crossing her arms. Her voice was raw from crying. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

"It's ok, it's just me," he said tenderly. She looked at him, bit her lip again, and quickly pointed a trembling finger at her sweater on the floor. "Can… can you…" she stammered.

"Yeah, of course, yeah." He crawled towards the sweater, hissing when he nicked his hand on a shard of glass. When he returned it to Hermione, she quickly put it back on, and didn't stop trembling till most of her body was covered.

She became quiet then, still. Draco didn't move either. Several icy beads of sweat popped on his forehead. Paling at a sudden thought, he asked, "Hermione… I didn't… I didn't hurt you, right?" His voice rose in volume, insistent and scared. "Hermione, if I did something, anything... if I crossed a line, if I hurt you in any way, I'll… do anything to set it right. Just tell me, all right?"

She looked at him with wide, glistening and mournful eyes. "You did nothing, Draco," she answered, reaching out to touch the cut on his hand. "This was me… I'm the one sorry... I thought I could, you know? I really did. But I couldn't, I couldn't…" She trailed off, her eyes locked onto some spot on the opposite wall. She looked like a broken toy, cast aside by a careless child.

"You mean the… sex?" Draco asked, thinking about the last moments before Hermione had… done what she did. His gut clenched at a terrible guess. "If I pushed you, I didn't mean… we don't have to…" he stuttered and took a deep breath. "You know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. Ever."

A sad smile graced her lips. "I know. But this isn't about you, Draco."

"Well, then what is this about, Hermione? You destroyed a whole room!" He felt a pang of guilt at the way his words caused her features to twist into a stricken expression, but shouldered on, praying that he was wrong, that there was just some normal reason for why she obliterated everything when they were on the verge of becoming intimate. An ugly, cynical whisper rattled on the insides of his skull, hinting at an unspeakable darkness. With a shudder, he recalled the surprising admission he heard when they had first discussed their mutual attraction at the Ritz, in Paris.

" _I don't really know how to act,"_ he had said, " _because I've never been in… well… any kind of real_ –"

" _Relationship? A rueful smile tugged at the edges of her lips when he shook his head in agreement, squirming a little. "Me neither."_

She hadn't been with _anyone_ since the war's end. Not even Weasley! She had explained it away then, but right now, in the face of her recent actions, the true motivation behind her behavior seemed much more tragic.

It was something he had no desire to even think about, but, looking at the fragments of furniture littering the floor, he had to know.

"Tell me, 'Mione?" he asked, using the diminutive form of her name for the first time. "Did something happen to you? Did someone..." He gulped, unable to complete the sentence. She said nothing for a long time. It became quiet, so quiet that Draco's ears started picking up on the random sounds that usually form background noise: a truck clearing snow on the street, someone walking by their door, the thumping in his chest. Hermione's eyes weren't moist anymore; the tears had dried. She sniffled from time to time, while her fingers fiddled with the hem of sweater. She looked lost, alone.

He was about to try again, when she spoke. Her words were hollow; eyes locked on the past. It was like a part of her consciousness evaporated from their room, transporting itself to a place where a girl had fought for her life, protecting everything she held dear from an evil that had no right to exist… and yet still did.

"It happened... in the last year of the war." Emotionless, her tone sent shivers down Draco's spine. "We were on the run then, Harry, Ron and I, and it was a hard time, Draco. We were constantly looking over our shoulders, always scared of being seen, of getting caught. It… frayed us, in a way. We got on each other's nerves, fought. We scrounged scraps from the forest floor to eat, but it wasn't enough, and we'd often fall asleep with our stomachs grumbling from hunger. It was dangerous, but sometimes we'd break into a muggle residence to steal cans of beans or other unperishables. One week was particularly difficult. Ron hadn't left yet, and we had that locket… We were cold, scared, there hadn't been any food in over two days. Harry and Ron didn't have an ounce of fat left on them, and I suppose I didn't look much better. Skin and bones, the lot of us…"

Hermione gave a wretched smile at that memory and continued, "As if the situation wasn't hard enough, we had a horcrux 'round our necks, and it was tearing us apart. One evening, we started yelling at each other; I can't even recall why now. Ron was bellowing, Harry yelling, and I was… well. I ended up leaving. I needed a breath of air, some time to myself. I stormed away from our encampment, walking forward until I ended up on the outskirts of some settlement. It wasn't large, not at all. The sun was going down, and, in the settling dusk, I saw a neon sign for a small shopping mart, and I thought to myself: I'll just take a look. I'll stroll down the aisles full of bounty, and maybe take just a little. Just something for us to eat, and then maybe everything will get better. We'll be happy, if only for a night. We won't argue, we'll sit and eat, and, for once in a month, we'd go to bed on a full stomach, pretending that we're safe in our warm beds at Hogwarts, and there's no war, no death, and all we have to worry about are Snape's detentions."

Hermione paused, her lips tightening into a straight line. A weary, battle-born fatigue could be traced to the corners of her mouth and the edges of her somber eyes.

"So I did," she said, pitifully choking back a sob. "I went in. I drew some stares: a girl from the woods usually does. Maybe I even had some twigs in my hair, I don't know. But I just couldn't resist. I walked along the shelves, and there was so much food. Peaches, Draco. There were stacks of canned peaches, sugary-sweet. To me, they looked like glimmers of hope wrapped in aluminum and paper. Hope... Whenever I see them now, I want to throw up."

Hermione's fingers were white from strain; her entire body strung out like a tightrope over an abyss. Draco sat, clenching and unclenching his fists, watching fresh beads of moisture fall from Hermione's eyes.

"He came out of the back room," she whimpered, as a salty tear made its way down to her nose. She sniffled and wiped it away with a fist. "Like something out of a nightmare: the door opened, and he was standing there, in his black robes and silver mask. It was just so incongruous – a Death Eater in a muggle store – that I didn't even believe my eyes. I wasn't scared at first. The fear… that came later."

"Hermione…" Draco interrupted for the first time. His earlier resolve to listen had evaporated. He wanted her to shut up, to tell him this was all some great ugly joke, that none of this had ever happened!

But she cut him off: " _No, Draco!_ Please! I want to say this! I _need_ to say this!"

Draco lowered his head and nodded. He had to blink several times to clear his vision.

Hermione took a deep, shuddering breath. "It was all a flash after that: me, reaching for my wand; his, already out. I'd wonder later: how did he find me? Was there some sort of trace on that place? Was I just unlucky, and did someone see and report me? Or was it one of those 'wrong place at the wrong time' sort of things? I never did find out… He stunned me there, in that store in a town that I don't even know the name of. And then he grabbed my hair and apparated us away. _That_ was when I got scared. I remember that fear: mind-numbing, potent, lead in my veins." Hermione's words were chipped and dull, broken nails covered in rust. "He took me to... it was some kind of cellar. The floor was dirt and wet, mud in places. There was mold on the walls and on the sacks of… potatoes, I think. They were rotten, rotten all the way through…"

She swallowed thickly. "He… he was gloating. Said he'd 'teach a mudblood its proper place.' He took the wand out of my hands, tossed it to the side, lifted the spell. Said he liked it when they fought. And then…"

Draco tensed, a puddle of bile under his tongue.

"And then he raped me."

Distress and dread played in the shadows of Hermione's pale face. A breath knotted in her throat, escaping through a pair of quivering lips. Her hands let go of the sweater and reached for Draco's. He met her halfway. Feeling sick, the only warmth he felt was from holding this girl's hand. This brave, loyal, beautiful girl that endured more in her twenty-one years than any woman – any _person_ – should.

He didn't know what to say. What words could make this right? So he just sat there, silent, sharing a speck of Hermione's pain in the hope that it would help her somehow. Maybe, it did.

A minute passed, and then another. A group of people walked past the door, children stomping their feet against a thick carpet. The adults hushed them and laughed. The carefree sound seemed out of place in the gloom of their room. It was a snippet of life going by. It shouldn't have done anything. But, maybe, it did.

A little color crept back into Hermione's cheeks. Her shoulders stood a little straighter, like, by saying those words out loud, some weight had been lifted. She bit her lip and went on, "Twice in my life I've begged, Draco. That was the first. And neither did me any good."

The Slytherin had no need to wonder what the second had been – he'd witnessed it himself. The Manor; his mad aunt. "What happened then?" he asked hoarsely.

Hermione lifted her eyes to the ceiling and continued in a detached voice. "After he was… finished, he slumped down on top of me. I remember him breathing heavily through the mask. It was the only sound I could hear. I hurt so much, Draco. It burned inside of me like acid." Her features compressed into agony as Draco continued to hold her. "And then he got up." Hermione was spitting the words out with disgust. "He was _satisfied. Content._ He wiped his dick on the shreds of my ripped clothes, chuckling the whole time like I was _nothing._ And he looked away. I used that moment. I can't even remember doing it, but I kicked him. He fell; I scrambled, reaching for my wand. Oh, the way he hollered when he realized what was happening! He started going for it too, but I got there first. My hands were shaking so bad that I have no idea how I managed the spell, but I did. I apparated away…"

Draco felt a wave of nausea roll through his gut. He wanted to scream, yell, and pummel his fists into the wall. A coppery taste invaded his mouth – he'd bitten through his lip.

"Who was he?" he bit out harshly, wishing the bastard was here so that he could tear him limb from limb. Death would be too kind for the beast that did this. It had been years since the end of the war, and Hermione was still suffering. Draco recalled a torture technique the Persians had used. The would force feed someone milk and honey till they puked, and then would trap the unfortunate individual in-between two boats on a lake. Tied down, the victim attracted thousands of bugs and vermin that feasted on sugar-coated flesh. Delirious, the person would last for days, slowly descending into madness.

That punishment… that would be fitting.

"I don't know," Hermione whispered. Draco swore. "He never removed his mask. There was only one mark I noticed: a scar on his right hand…"

Draco was about to curse again, when he froze, a terrible thought crossing his mind. It was a memory… a memory of Hermione asking him a question back at the Manor, when he had agreed to a dose of veritaserum prior to their trip.

 _She paused suddenly, biting her lip. For a split second, uncertainty peeked through her features, but then her determined eyes met his glassy ones and she asked, "Do you know of any Death Eater that has a scar in the shape of a crescent moon on the back of his right hand?"_

" _No," he answered immediately. He was surprised; she had promised to keep her questions limited to the scope of this investigation. This seemed… personal?_

"You never found him, did you?" he asked.

Hermione shook her head. "I checked every single Death Eater that had been caught or killed. Listed through their files... I've been to half the cells in Azkaban, Draco. Ron and Harry called me barmy, thought I was looking for some pity case to exonerate. But I was looking for him. I wanted to spit in his face, rip him apart, and show what a ' _mudblood'_ could do! But there was no match. He was gone. Maybe he was one of the ones that ran away, or maybe he died in some bog, and his body never discovered. Either way, I just don't know."

Draco processed this information, confused about one part. "They thought you were looking for some pity case?" he asked, repeating her words, and then he understood. His eyes went wide with realization.

" _They don't know."_

He recalled suddenly, when later, after the interrogation, he visited Grimmauld Place. Hermione had provided a wisp of her memories for Potter and Weasley to look at in a pensieve… but she had removed one piece... that question about the scar.

"They don't know," he said again. "Does anyone..?" Hermione started to shake her head again, but then stopped. "Well," she stated, "you do."

Draco hadn't the faintest of how to respond to that. A bolt of lighting from the heavens would have had less of an impact, and it took a moment to gather his wits about him. "You mean… you've kept this all to yourself… for years? Just had it bottled up?"

Hermione shrugged. Her words flowed easier now, becoming more expressive. She lowered her legs, laying them flat against the floor. "There was a war to fight, and I couldn't afford to waste any time crying," she said in a bossy tone reminiscent of her school days. "Harry had nightmares almost every night; he had a piece of Voldemort's soul in his head, for fucks sake! So I cleaned myself up, wiped the blood from my thighs, and… just stashed everything away. And life went on."

"The blood from your thighs…"

"Not the first time every girl dreams about," Hermione joked darkly. Draco stared at her, aghast. Hermione smiled through a veil of dried tears. "It's not so bad now," she whispered.

"Bloody fucking hell."

Hermione shrugged again. "And then the war ended with a round of funerals. How do I talk about what happened to me when Fred was dead? When Remus and Tonks had both been killed, leaving behind a little boy? So, I… pushed the memory away, locked it up in my mind. For me, it became a routine: to pretend it had never happened. That it had been someone else in that cellar. Over time it… got easier."

"Easier…" Draco echoed, lip curling.

She nodded with a tiny, hopeful smile. "It's better now, too."

"Merlin-fucking-dammit!" Draco cried out with helpless fury, slamming his fist against the ground. "I'll kill the fucking bastard. I swear to you–"

Something dark flashed in Hermione's eyes.

"But I don't want him dead," she interrupted in a gravely voice. "I want him _mine._ You understand, Draco? _MINE!_ I don't want him in some cell in Azkaban or in a fucking grave, I want him chained to a fucking wall, so that every single day I can come to him and see the pain in his eyes. I want to hear him cry and plead and beg, just like I did. I want him to feel what I felt every single day for years, until his sanity crumbles, and he turns into a mindlessly bubbling sac of human shit!"

Hermione ended her rant with a feral snarl. Panting, she took several deep breaths.

"I want to feel free, Draco," she added quietly. "Ever since that happened, I haven't even lived. I've been a walking corpse, distancing myself from any light in this world, too afraid that I wasn't worthy of feeling its warmth. I can't fall asleep at night, too afraid to close my eyes. I'm scared that when I open them, I'll be back there, in that moldy cellar. So, I want to take that fear and pummel it into his broken body. And, then, maybe, I can live again."

Draco looked at her for a long time. Then, he swallowed thickly and spoke.

"I'll help you," he promised solemnly. "I'll get him for you, even if it's the last thing I do."

Hermione smiled. For the first time in years, her soul felt a little lighter. She looked out towards the window. Morning had come.

"We have to be in St. Petersburg by noon," she said. "Anastasia will be looking for us."

Draco nodded but didn't budge. Hermione felt the silence mold around them, as they sat there together on the floor of a wrecked Parisian hotel room.

They stayed still for a long time.


	33. The Four Breaths

**London, Grimmauld Place**

Smells of dust, parchment, spilled ink and stolen millions wafted through the musty air. When he breathed it all in, Percy's nose tingled and began to itch. He sneezed, promptly, and then rubbed his hands together. Being ambidextrous meant that both his limbs suffered, despite the numerous times he had switched quills from his left hand to his right and then back again. The cramping, along with a sting in his eyes and a persistent ache in his back, was a regular occurrence these days. You don't work dawn to dawn in a sitting position without any physical repercussions.

It was all worth it.

He was on his sixth quill by now; the others had been ground down to nothing. Carefully organized stacks of parchment rose around him like smokestacks in a factory. They belched the foul stench of corruption and misdeeds, and Percy was weeding out all the guilty parties one by one.

He didn't focus too much on where Hermione had obtained the Ministry's financial dealings. Or how. Certainly, there hadn't been any permission involved, which made possessing these papers highly illegal. Percy let his mind slide around that fact, however, focusing instead on future laurels. What he had already uncovered would rock the upper echelons of wizarding society and reshape the established power structures with him as a shining star that people would follow.

Oh, the scandals that were coming...

The Hogwarts Restoration Fund was the perfect example. One of several postbellum accounts, it had been formed to aid a country torn by war. Pensions and benefits were dispensed to families with dead or wounded, money was directed towards rebuilding efforts. Hogwarts was one of the priorities, and yet, after three and a half years, the project was still unfinished. The clincher was that not only had several rounds of fines on pureblood estates been contributed to it, but taxes on the citizenry had gone through several increases. The justification was that there was simply not enough money to cover all the expenses.

And Percy now knew why.

The money was being stolen.

It wasn't obvious. Following all the misspent Galleons would be a job for scores of forensic accountants, but Percy had grabbed the gist of what was transpiring.

Ministry officials claimed that all new money was directed towards the reconstruction fund. They had even offered proof. And that was true. The part they left out, however, was that, whenever any money was added, old revenue streams were redirected, leaving the net balance either unchanged or in the red.

So if the Ministry put 300,000 Galleons of taxpayer money in, they would quietly take 300,000 out. It was a scam of gigantic proportions. Percy had been focused on tracking that money's serpentine journey for the past several days.

So far, he had traced some of it to significant increases in many 'competitive compensation packages' the Ministry offered as well as 'an upgrade to the Ministry fleet of vehicles'. In general terms, higher salaries, perks, and an order of twenty brooms from the top-of-the-line V-1 series, which outperformed the Firebolt by a whopping 7.3%. He had also found receipts reimbursing several high ranking officials for a vacation in Aruba, where 15,000 Galleons alone was spent on booze and hookers. Roughly fifty-fifty.

On one parchment, Percy had written down a list of names. Several of them were circled in red. In time, the hammer of justice would descent on their unsuspecting heads, and it would be Percy that wielded it.

A part of him couldn't help but observe that all of this was due to a criminal lack of transparency. The Appropriations Committee that was charged with regulating expenditures by the government was closed; its minutes were not available to the public. In fact, only the members of the committee had any knowledge of how, why, and when money was spent. The regular people had no say in this, unless they were connected by personal or other means. Looking at the inequitable way money was distributed among the the various projects was a significant tell. An orphanage in North Ireland received a fraction of the money disbursed to an upscale rehabilitation center in Sussex, and there were many more examples.

Prior to the war, there had been a balance between those in charge. Now, due to death or incarceration in Azkaban, a number of notable pureblood representatives were absent, their empty seats filled by either incompetents, individuals with limited governance experience, or those who had quickly figured out how to abuse their new stations of authority.

Needless to say, the balance had shifted.

It the chaos of the war's aftermath, it wasn't even that unexpected.

When Percy would be put in charge of this committee (and he _would_ be put in charge), he would make all its decisions open for public debate. This thought kept his mind fueled and body running. And so, he scribbled away, tabulating data and logging names. There was a whole stream of them, one leading to another. An undersecretary to the Minister was already involved, and Percy was confident this was just the tip of the iceberg.

An iceberg that would sink this corrupt barge of greedy civil servants.

Percy cracked his knuckles, stretched, and picked up a seventh quill. The door to his room opened and closed, but he paid it no heed.

He had a job to do.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Ron put the platter of sandwiches Ginny had made on a table and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. Percy was so engrossed in his work, he hadn't even noticed his brother's entrance. Ron hoped he was making progress; Merlin knew they some good news about now. He sighed, took a breath, and exhaled with a tinge of exhaustion. The last week had been difficult.

Ever since the attack in Diagon Alley, every auror had been put on high alert. They were all working double-shifts: investigating; following any and all leads; and interrogating individuals with even the most remote connection to Death Eaters – specifically, Corban Yaxley.

Forensics had tied the magic from the explosion to his familial line. Yaxley was one of the high-profile Death Eaters who had successfully escaped after the final battle and had evaded capture for years. There was speculation he had fled the country, but, as the attack showed, that was not the case. Ron and Harry were part of a team tasked with his apprehension. So far, they had little to show for their efforts.

It didn't help that the death toll had risen, as several of the wounded in the attack succumbed to their injuries. More lives lost to a war that was supposed to be over years ago. The public was in shock; an emotion that was experiencing a swift metamorphosis towards outrage. The Ministry and the Auror Department were on the verge of becoming an object of ridicule and public wrath. Their competence was already being put under question, and that was grating on the nerves of every single auror. Sooner or later, such pressure would lead to a mistake.

Ron turned around and slowly took the staircase down to his room at Grimmauld Place. He was planning on getting some rest before his next shift. He passed a mirror on his way and grimaced – he looked like hell. Just like everyone else, pretty much.

He stopped at the entrance of his room, reaching for a curved handle, which gave easily; the door swiveling quietly on well-oiled hinges. That was the trap.

He always forgot about it – the rickety floorboard right after the door. It stood out half-an-inch taller than its compatriots. Ron's foot snagged on it, and he tumbled over. His hands shot out, scraping over the floor, stopping his nose an inch away from the smirking wood.

"You bitch," Ron swore at the house. It was out to get him – he knew it. He slowly stood up, picking up a piece of paper that had fallen out of his pocket. Carefully unfolding it, he read its contents with a heavy sigh.

It held the names and addresses of missing MCU personnel. Even with all the additional work, Harry and Ron had continued their investigation, trying to find some clue as how the people had disappeared and who had done it. There were three names left on the list. Maybe, _maybe,_ one of them would bring light to the dark.

Ron hoped he and Harry would have time to look into the matter tomorrow, but it was doubtful. Maybe the day after that.

Maybe…

He sighed again before going to sleep. His next shift was in four hours.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

 **Somewhere in England**

Corban Yaxley paced the length of the room – seven steps in one direction and seven in the other. As of this moment, it was number 5,673. His hands tugged on the edge of his sweater, fiddled with the ends of its sleeves, and then fell to his sides only to rise again with ceaseless anxiety.

Yaxley took a breath to calm himself. It was cold and crisp, a nip of air wafting in through an open window. The snows had been unexpected, heavy – a rare occurrence for this part of Britain. Yaxley continued his pacing.

He knew the symptoms – cabin fever. He'd been cooped up in this house for days, not daring to peek his nose out. The aurors were out in full force, raiding, patrolling; like a pack of hounds, they were sniffing around every corner, hoping to catch a whiff of his scent. The citizenry had been alerted – again – and, once the Ministry linked his magic to the explosion, his face had made the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ for three days in a row. ' _Wanted'_ , the headlines had read, ' _for crimes against humanity.'_

It made Yaxley annoyed. Could it sound more pompous?

Yaxley sighed, bringing his mind back to the present, and pausing to gaze out the window. He had expected nothing less, after all. He knew the consequences of his actions, but, at least the main mission was secure, as any attention that had potentially been on Dolohov was now focused squarely on him. Without the Granger girl returning, Dolohov should remain safe.

Yaxley was confident in his own safety as well. Any chances the Aurors had of finding him were slim. There was simply nothing to lead them here.

His neighbor was on her porch, waving her wand to clear the snow. "Old hag," he sneered, but she didn't hear him. As far as she was concerned, this house was empty. Had been for years now, ever since its previous owner met his untimely fate at the end of Dolohov's wand. Although, to the world, the man who had lived here had abruptly cut off all ties and moved to India. It helped that he had no relatives, no next of kin, nobody to worry about him except for his co-workers, and those had met similar grim fates. The house was free to live in.

The old witch paused, rubbing a crick in her back. Looking at her, Yaxley thought he was running low on essentials – he'd need to raid the witch's pantry again. He'd been doing it since he first took up residence here, and, although she had noticed items and food disappearing, no one in the Auror Department had taken her complaints seriously. She had 'cried wolf' one too many times. Merlin bless these old, naggy hags that always managed to alienate the world.

He whirled away from the window, resuming his counting: 5,674; 5,675; 5,676. Maybe he'd go out… just for a little bit. Aurors couldn't patrol every street and park. Something hinted at him that he wouldn't have to wait long. Something significant had changed… he'd seen it in the whites of Dolohov's eyes at that cemetery. Something was coming.

5,677.

5,678.

And then, hopefully, when Dark Lord's compulsions fell, he could leave this cursed country with its cursed weather. Warm. He wanted to be warm.

Yaxley took another breath, and steeled himself for what would come. Now, it was just a matter of time.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

 **England, outskirts of London**

"– _leaving weather forecasters baffled. The storms have surged across mainland Europe, impacting millions, and several governments have declared a state of emergency within their borders, deploying troops to assist the thousands who are stranded without any power and heat. The issues are exacerbated by interruptions of–"_

 **. . . .**

"– _as temperatures plummeted overnight. However, despite the bleak situation many face, for these children behind me, the snow is an early Christmas dream come true."_

" _Thank you, Sally. That was Sally Ride, bringing us the latest on weather conditions within the London area. And now, to breaking news: fresh allegations of corruption on Downing Street. The Prime Minister has_ –"

 **. . . .**

"– _as murder rates continue to rise, reaching unprecedented heights. Our guests tonight: Barry Lyar, a senior fellow at the Brookings Institute_ –"

 **. . . .**

The noises were grating, rubbing the meat of his eardrums raw. Dolohov coughed, tasting bile and copper under his tongue. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling. After the bout of coughing subsided, he spit, feeling some of the wetness dribble down his chin, and took a breath. Deep and raspy, it was almost a choke. The air tasted stale and wrong.

Everything tasted wrong when he was awake.

He opened his eyes. He had no idea where he was, and the gloomy light from a single lightbulb wasn't nearly enough for any level of adequate illumination. Echoing from the depths of a corridor, a Muggle TV could be heard, the channels changing every minute or so. Mostly, it was just news.

Dolohov slowly rose. He couldn't remember a single thing since…yesterday morning.

They were a common occurrence now, these blackouts. They happened at irregular intervals, sometimes several in a day, sometimes none in a week. He'd wake up in some place, unaware of how he came to be there, or what he had done.

It was maddening. _The Other_ paced in his head, hungry and…happy?

Absentmindedly, Dolohov wiped his hands on the front of his pants. They were slick, moist; glancing down, he saw red. Blood. There was a lot of blood in this room. Bits of bone too, if he was correct. The sight didn't trouble him; he'd seen rooms just like it. It wasn't his blood, and that's what mattered. Just some Muggle's. And was there any real difference between a Muggle and a, say, cow?

Of course there was. Cows gave milk, meat. They had their uses. Muggles were just foul, dirtying the world around them with their ceaseless expansion. It was amazing they hadn't drowned in their own filth yet; then again, shit always tended to float.

The television in the other room changed channels again, something about a missing family. Dolohov grinned. Yaxley was a fool if he thought he could 'lay low'. Even if Antonin wanted to, he couldn't stop infecting and killing muggles. It was in his mind, his soul. _The Other_ demanded it, and Dolohov wasn't one to argue. He enjoyed the process – the screams, the begging, the blood. It made his heart sing. He'd infected scores more since his meeting with Yaxley in the cemetery. Filth should kill filth, he thought. It was only proper.

Dolohov walked along the corridor towards the room with the TV. There was a Muggle sitting there, his fingers pressing into a remote, changing the channels. The Muggle didn't respond at his entrance, didn't move in any other way in fact. Dolohov sensed the _Imperius_ – his _Imperius_. He didn't remember casting it.

That was the true worry – the blackouts, the way his mind was going. He was afraid that, one day, he wouldn't wake up at all – that his mind would become wiped and _The Other_ would have free reign. Dolohov didn't want to die like that. He didn't want to die at all.

 _The Other_ chuckled. It had been more active these past weeks, as if stimulated by an unknown outside force. It was stronger, bigger, more expressive. He could feel an echo of its feelings: something _The Other_ was immensely pleased with, an object that would finally make it whole.

" _It is almost grown now."_ The words were slimy, slithering like slugs through the caverns of his mind. " _It will come…"_

Dolohov stared at the muggle, but his vision was preoccupied with more appetizing visions. His muscles went rigid. _The Key…?_ It was his chance to survive, to finally be rid of _The Other._

" _When?"_

 _The Other_ chuckled again, a sound reminiscent of chalk scraping over blackboard. Dolohov cringed.

" _Soon,"_ he heard. " _Soon…"_

Slowly, Dolohov relaxed, and an ugly, inhuman grin twisted over his features. His journey was coming to an end. A laugh bubbled up from his belly, but one would be taxed in locating even a scintilla of mirth in its haunting sounds. Dolohov closed in on the helpless muggle. It was a present to him from _The Other._

And, oh, would he have his fun.

* * *

 **My beta, Frogster, is responsible for so many edits. A huge thank you to her, and, if you enjoy marriage law fics, she's working on one now. Go check it out, it's called 'let it be me'.**


	34. Inner Conflicts

Hermione ended up calling their hotel in St. Petersburg and asking the staff at the reception desk to inform Anastasia that they would be late. Of course, there was no guarantee that the Russian witch would approach it – Hermione had no idea how comfortable she was around muggles – but it was the best they could hope for.

There was simply no other means of contacting Anastasia; all they had was a tentative agreement to meet today, at noon, in their St. Petersburg hotel. Noon was only several hours away, and the two Hogwarts graduates were still in Paris. Hermione was loath to admit it, but there was no muggle way they could arrive in the old Russian capital in time.

Magic was the way to go.

She hated the idea. It was traceable and risky, but there was no other choice. Of course, the main Parisian Floo hubs were off-limits; it would be rather awkward for the still officially missing Hermione Granger to buy one-way passage to St. Petersburg alongside Draco Malfoy.

The Aurors wouldn't understand.

That left portkey travel. Official portkeys were all catalogued by their respective ministries; however, it wasn't uncommon for several to go missing from time to time. There was a market for them, after all. That's how the glorious system of capitalism works: generate a little bit of demand and supply _will_ follow. Whether it's for babies, nuclear arms or cat mittens doesn't matter. Given enough people, profits will always trump morals.

Draco had a vague idea of where to acquire such a portkey; Hermione none at all. She wasn't exactly well-versed in the criminal underground of a foreign country. So she followed Draco, looking at him with trusting, hopeful eyes. Some of you may know that look, been blessed to be its sender or recipient. It's the look of a woman in love, filled with the belief that the object of her affections can somehow achieve anything.

And she most certainly was in love, for how can you not feel that way towards the one who holds you through the darkest hour?

He took them to the Parisian caverns; he'd heard whispers of merchants that were willing to trade in illegal goods. Harry called her cell a few minutes before their descent. Hermione didn't have time to chat, but the several sentences they passed between them was enough to make her smile. She resolved to give her friend a huge hug when they returned home.

Draco grumbled, insisting that a conversation with Potter could wait and where did women even acquire their propensity for idle chatter?!

Hermione wasn't fooled by his snarky manner. She saw the glimmer of humor under his tone, the jest in his words. They weren't meant to be taken at face value. Instead, it felt nice that he was comfortable enough to banter with her. She laughed, agreed, and promised Harry that she'd be in touch.

Then, as Draco led her down, she focused her mind on the task at hand.

How do you find an illegal portkey in a wizarding market? Well, the same way you acquire drugs on the streets of Detroit – by having money and looking desperate. Or being rich and gullible. Or – come to think of it, there are actually a number of ways to score some puffs of powder there, especially by that warehouse area on… nevermind.

Anyway, Draco decided to take the lead, something Hermione starkly objected to. They were in this together, she said. This resulted in a brief, yet heated argument, with Draco getting all huffy and hissing that he absolutely refused to let a girl deal with these criminals.

Given Hermione's history and the nature of their mission, it was a rather ridiculous position to take, and yet Hermione had relented, feeling touched. Seeing Draco's protective side emerge was actually adorable. He, of course, denied any such thing, but they both knew the truth.

She pointed this out, and he stormed away, waving his arms in a very theatrical manner. She giggled and yelled at his retreating back, asking who was wasting time now? The Slytherin pivoted on his heel and returned, salvaging the remainder of his pride by making her promise not to get into any danger. Grinning like a loon, she acquiesced, and he jutted out his chest in victory, looking like some peacock that had just scored a date during the spring mating ritual.

She sent him away with a peck on the cheek.

Draco wandered up to various shady dealers, often making a fool out of himself, but he clenched his teeth, bore their mocking, and finally ended up stumbling into someone who didn't dismiss them out of hand or curse them out. They would never know, but it was the same individual who assisted Rawlings in his escape.

Draco paid a hefty sum, and a portkey for St. Petersburg was in their hands. Luck was with them that day, for the portkey was authentic and activated on-time. Hermione clutched at Draco's hands, the air whirled around them, and they popped out of existence, magic depositing the pair in a shadowy nook near St. Petersburg's _Nevsky Prospect._

They were three hours late. Hermione bit her lip, cursed under her tongue, and retrieved her wand. Draco eyed Bellatrix's old weapon warily, but then withdrew his own; a hungry glimmer dancing in his eyes. They disapparated with a pop, rematerialized in the hotel room, and then rushed down to the lobby.

Anastasia, clad in robes that, thankfully, due to the weather, didn't look too out of place, was nervously sitting in a chair, jumping at every sound. A profound relief spread over her features when she saw her friends appear, and she stood to rush over to them, giving any muggles in her way a wide berth.

Hermione hugged her friend warmly, murmuring apologies for their tardiness. Anastasia didn't answer, reciprocating the gesture with ardour. Hermione could feel the witch trembling in her arms.

"What's the matter?" she inquired, succumbing to an urge to brush some wayward locks of raven hair from the girl's forehead. Anastasia's skin was covered in beads of sweat. "Is it that we're late? I'm sorry–"

"No, no," Anastasia shook her head, glancing around fearfully. She sounded panicked; pallid and pale, her skin held a sickly taint. Her lips were swollen from bites; they were as red as coral. "Well… Iz just... Zese muggles, zis city. How can you stand it?! Zere are people everyone, and ze noise–"

As if to prove her point, a car honked on the street outside, inciting a sharp inhale from the frightened witch. "Can ve go? Are you ready?" The words trembled on her lips.

"Of course," Hermione replied, worried at the sight of her friend's distress, "let's just–"

But Anastasia wasn't listening anymore. She grabbed both their hands, greeting Draco with a quick squeeze on the fingers, and rushed towards the closest place they could safely apparate from.

It turned out be a men's bathroom.

"Um…" Hermione wanted to protest, but the sheer iron grip on her wrist left no room for retreat. The space was empty (thank Merlin) and before Anastasia apparated them away, the trio was graced to a vision of five pearly urinals. Under one of them, the floor was dribbled with yellow.

 _Riveting,_ thought Hermione, and then the world turned black.

They appeared in some clearing in the middle of a forest, the noises of the city replaced by a twitter of birds and a whisper of wind. Hermione, feeling her feet sink into several feet of snow, gave out a girlish squeak. Draco chuckled, helping her up, and then turned to Anastasia, who had collapsed into the snow, her robes fanning out like a shroud. Her eyes were closed.

"Nast'ya," Hermione said, cautiously approaching the girl. "Are you alright?"

The witch's breathing was rapid and shallow. "Yes," she mouthed, ripping open the top of her robes. She looked a little calmer now, her skin returning to a more healthy color. Opening her eyes, she accepted Draco's extended hand of assistance, using it to sit up. Snow crunched beneath her form.

"I'm sorry," she said wearily. "Iz just… I don't know how you can stand to be zer! All zose muggles!" Eyes flashing with sudden fury, she spat the last word with disgust.

Hermione was taken aback. Anastasia hadn't displayed a single note of prejudice the night before, so where was this repulsion coming from? Had she really misread the girl so much? Was she as bigoted as Draco had been? Hermione quickly corrected herself there, although it led to a stab of sadness in her chest: for Draco still detested muggles. He'd just changed his opinion of muggleborns.

"Is that… a problem?" Hermione hesitantly asked, afraid of hearing the answer. Draco, still holding Anastasia, looked on sympathetically.

"Of course!" Anastasia cried out, shaking her head. "How can you even ask? Have you seen what zey do? How zey live by destroying everything zey touch?!"

"Well–" Hermione began, but Anastasia didn't even pause.

"Venever I come to muggle city, I cannot breathe! I choke on ze exhaust from zer vehicles, from ze toxins floating in air! I see a once beautiful vorld torn down; forest, prairie and river replaced by heartless concrete and building of steel! I see rivers black from sludge and animals suffocated in endless trash! Zey grow meat in ze most horrible conditions, because all zey care about iz money! Money, money, money – iz all zey think of! Zere is no compassion in zer souls, nor even thought for how their children will survive! Ven I sit and vait for you, zey all rush around me, crowds zat go back and forth, lost in a tiny moment zat means nothing! Zey are like dead, like zombies zat only care about zemselves! I hate zem, I hate zem all!"

Silence greeted the end of her rant. Anastasia panted, her chest heaving as tears rolled down from red-rimmed eyes. Draco extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and gallantly offered it. With quivering lips and a grateful expression, Anastasia accepted. Hermione watched as she dabbed her eyes and wiped her face. She felt a little lost.

It made sense, she supposed. Wizarding communities were sparse and often deeply bonded with the land. Most witches and wizards lived in small, isolated factions; by contrast, any muggle metropolis would appear to be a heap of toxic rubbish populated by ignorant hordes.

It wasn't a fair comparison, of course. Wizards were few in number, and so never had to face the challenges of overpopulation, housing, and land development aimed at keeping millions fed and clothed. There were no sweatshops or factories in the magical world – there was simply no demand for mass-produced goods. Most things were made or grown locally, sold or bartered for at a village fair. It was very rare for a business to employ over twenty-five people. Most were family-operated, in fact; professions passed down father to son, mother to daugher.

Also, wizards had magic. Spells don't leave behind carbon dioxide or methane that pollute the atmosphere, nor heavy metals or plastics that poison the ground. A wizard would see these muggle by-products as signs of malice and purposeful destruction…just like Anastasia did. Anastasia, who used her lands to house a sanctuary for wounded animals; Anastasia, who lived in the wilderness, far from areas of urban development. Of course, muggles were a shock to her. Of course, they scared her with their numbers, cars and planes.

Hermione couldn't help but feel she stumbled onto a partial explanation of why Voldemort was so successful among pureblood families. How many of them truly believed in the cause? How many thought that by killing muggles they were aiding the world? Was that their justification for torture and murder? That muggles were worse than animals – that they were a virus, just like Anastasia had stated – and needed to be burned out before they infested the whole body?

Of course, historical factors such as medieval witch hunts and mobs of pitchfork-bearing peasants only exacerbated the issue.

Hermione frowned, looking down at the bitten cuticles of her fingernails. Like a snowglobe, she turned the problem over in her head, recalling her experience from the war that softness only gets people killed, and looked at this as a pureblood would. Maybe… maybe there was a point in such a line of thinking. Muggles _were_ spreading over the globe like wildfire, and they did destroy all sorts of habitats to fuel their own lives.

And, inevitably, this sprawl would begin to danger her own world. It was still possible to make muggles avoid areas of magical residence, but what would happen if all available room ran out? With advances in computing, cloud-based algorithms and data parsing, when would they begin to notice those odd ruins that no one could approach? Ruins that were really wizarding manors, magical infrastructure, or even schools, like Hogwarts?

From this viewpoint, Hermione couldn't help think that while Voldemort's logic was flawed and his methods barbaric, his conclusion – to decimate the muggle populations – wasn't that far off. Maybe there was a blessing in this virus he had left behind.

Blinking rapidly, Hermione came to a shocking realization.

The virus wasn't _just_ an infection. It was…

Power.

It was the potential solution to so many problems. All she had to do was force the spell to obey her desires. Which was possible, wasn't it?

With Frackenburger, she could alter its magical code, turn an instrument of mass-destruction into a scalpel that would make the precise cuts which magical and non-magical cohabitation required.

It wasn't like this was her idea, even. Philosophies like Social Darwinism had always attained some traction. Except, instead of war and disease, it would be her, quickly and painlessly culling the excess muggle population that would always be a potential threat to wizardkind.

It would be a form of euthanasia, or – an even better analogy – an amputation of limb so that the whole could survive.

Hermione blinked again and, with a growing horror, realized she had just begun intellectually advocating the murder of millions for the greater good. People who were innocent and were simply trying to persevere in a society they had been born into. It wasn't their fault.

 _And yet_ , a dark part nagged, _it isn't a pest's fault to be born either, and yet we zap, trap and poison them every day. Are muggles any different? Remember your feeling in Paris; how good it felt to be a witch and cast magic when most imagine it to be fantasy? Doesn't that make you better than them?_

Ok, maybe that was too extreme of a position, but wasn't her primary obligation to her friends? To safeguard Draco, Harry, Ron and other members of the magical world? Wasn't it her duty to ensure the safety of their children – of _her_ children, one day – so that they would never fear discovery by muggles? If she did augment the virus and then unleash it… some muggles would die, true, but that would work towards avoiding a much larger conflict later on, as well as dealing with issues that the inevitable tide of rising global populations unleashed.

In a way, she would be helping them.

Besides, it's not like Harry or Ron would find out. She wouldn't tell them (they wouldn't understand), and it's not like Harry was eager to return to his muggle roots. He hadn't even been aware of this virus before she told him.

Although, if she did commit to such a course, she'd have to ensure a caveat so that parents of magical children – and the children themselves – weren't affected. She couldn't murder her own kind...

Swiftly calculating the stream of constants and variables, she came to the conclusion that it would be simple. In fact, with a reasonable degree of caution, there wouldn't be a single repercussion. The world was at her fingertips, all courtesy of a wizard that hated her kind and had attempted to murder her via his cronies on numerous occasions. The irony…

Still, it was one thing to kill, imperious or torture a Death Eater on the battlefield, it was a whole other game to coolly contemplate mass murder of unsuspecting muggles.

Pursing her lips into a thin, straight line, Hermione banished these considerations for later, stomped over the snow to Anastasia, and knelt down to offer the girl a hug. She was the reason behind Anastasia's anguish, and felt terrible for making her friend suffer. "I'm sorry," she apologized again. "We left you all alone with them, but we're here now." Anastasia, still clutching Draco's handkerchief, sniffled.

"Iz ok," she answered, looking up at Hermione with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I don't really mean vat I say. I don't hate zat much, I was just… scared to be zer by all by myself."

"Oh, honey, I understand," Hermione soothed, taking the handkerchief and gently wiping away the last of Anastasia's tears, "and I'm sorry too." She met the smile with one of her own, captivated by a pair of sparkling and trusting eyes. The were so wide and innocent, almost childlike in their appearance. Feeling a warmth blossom in her chest, Hermione leaned in to press a comforting kiss on Anastasia's cheek.

She smelled of pine and alpine meadows, filled with tracts of blooming perennials – primrose and edelweiss. Her arms were stretched around Hermione's back, tangling in tufts of rebellious hair.

Another sniffle (the exhale tickling Hermione's neck), and Anastasia carefully disentangled herself. A rosy blush tinged her cheeks; her eyes were downcast, abashed.

Darting up, she buttoned up her robes in a series of brisk movements. "Ahh..." she mumbled, "ve have to go now, yes? I must take you to _babushka._ "

"Yes, yes, we do," Hermione agreed, letting her go and standing up, sporting a sappy grin from the simple fact that she had one more friend. Unwilling to embarrass Anastasia any further, she covered it up by busying herself with dusting the snow from the front of her robes.

"And, um, how exactly are we supposed to get there?" Draco piped up. "Do you have a portkey stashed away, somewhere under the snow? Do we need a pair of shovels?"

Anastasia glowered. "No," she snapped, raising her fist at the Slytherin. "I have _Drakosha._ But I vill hit you very-very hard if you scare him! Understand? He is just little boy."

Draco's face became rather still suddenly, as all of the gaity rapidly fled. "Wait," he gulped nervously, "you mean your pet dragon? You want us to _fly_ on it?!"

No response was necessary. A great roar from the sky replaced whatever words Anastasia might have said, as a dark shape blotted out the sun.

Hermione gave out a heavy sigh. It really shouldn't bother her.

She'd already been on a dragon before, after all. What was one more?

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

 **2 days later**

Stifling a yawn, Harry walked the side of the residential street next to Ron. He had to pay special attention to where he was going, forcing his mind to stay sharp and ready. They had a case to solve; Hermione was counting on them, along with thousands of helpless.

It wasn't easy.

Harry was tired, angry, miserable. All familiar emotions he had more than his fair share of during his childhood and adolescence. Sometimes, the urge to wallow in self-pity was overpowering, suffocating him in a inflexible clutch. He always shook it off. While it was true that his past held more tragedy than what many of his peers ever experienced, he also possessed a treasure many lacked.

Friends. His soul was bonded to them, an unshakeable tether that had withstood the combined strain of childhood grudges, jealousy, and that unspeakable suffering they had endured over the course of the war. Even when times were at their bleakest, when hope was but a tiny ember dwarfed in the black sea of despair… even then the bonds had held, their friendship persisting with a tenacity few could ever dream of.

As they passed several wizarding residences, Harry's control slipped, and his mind started to wander, a small, dreamy smile tugging at the edges of his lips. He had spoken with Hermione just over an hour ago. She had been in Paris, sounding hopeful, but rushed. Relaying her recent adventures, she told him about meeting Anastasia at the Shabash; that the witch had confirmed their suspicions about Dolohov and given them a potential lead. She hadn't said much else – Malfoy's voice had butted in, claiming they needed to hurry and could she 'quit her incessant womanly babbling.'

Malfoy was born a prat, had been bred a prat, and would die a prat.

Harry would have never anticipated Hermione's reaction, however. Instead of exploding in a fit of righteous indignation and lecturing her companion on misogyny and the need to respect women's rights, she had actually laughed, gave Malfoy ( _Malfoy!)_ what sounded like a playful smack, and promptly followed the rude command, sending Harry her goodbyes.

The Boy-Who-Lived had slumped down in a state of shock. What the hell? Replaying the conversation in his head, he recalled one more oddity – the way Hermione had sounded. It was like her voice had lost some of its post-war rigidity, and there was almost a prance to her words, a lightheartedness he hadn't heard in years.

Despite all of their precautions, Harry still had reservations about letting his friend leave with Malfoy. The Slytherin had seemed safe and eager to help… but you could never be too sure. If the going got tough, would Malfoy uphold his end of the bargain and help Hermione, or would he turn tail and run? Even worse, what if his hateful attitudes towards muggleborns still lingered somewhere deep; would they rise at the worst possible moment?

Harry knew his worries were pointless, partly irrational, and there wasn't anything he could change anyway. Such knowledge had no impact on his feelings however. Worry is the other side of love; together, they are yin and yang, two sides of a coin, as the cost of happiness will always be the fear of losing it.

Still, Hermione's reaction was certainly out of character. He really needed to see her, to check if she was okay. Because, if Malfoy had hurt his friend in any way, then so help him Merlin, Harry would–

Harry Potter had no chance to complete that thought. Ron gasped, his hand flying towards the wand holster on his hip. Harry reacted on instinct. A small part of him cursed his own wavering attentions (a frequent death sentence in this line of work) as his body burst into action. His wand was whipped out a fraction of a second later, eyes scanning the street for any sign of danger. Honed during the war and Auror training, his mind was quickly cataloguing places of potential ambush and routes of escape.

He was unable to find the source of his partner's distress, however, and Ron wasn't exactly diving for cover or shouting spells. Shoulders tense, Harry shot his partner an appraising glance.

With an expression of starstruck horror, Ron was standing still. It looked like he had discovered the secret of the universe in addition to the meaning of life, and it had shocked the living daylights out of him. Harry's eyes followed his gaze.

They were standing on the sidewalk across from an uninhabited house – one that still, according to the documents they had dug up, belonged to a missing member of MCU. It was the last address, corresponding to the final name on their list. Every other entry had been a dead end, and Harry didn't hold any hope for this one as well. He didn't know what leads to follow after this.

But Ron wasn't looking at _this_ house. He was staring at the one next to it.

There, on a snow-cleared porch and leaning on a cane of yew, stood the crooked form of an ancient witch. Glaring at the two Aurors with a look inherent to people past a certain age, she was shaking a withered fist in their direction. Harry's eyes went wide, a puff of breath lodged in his chest. His mind was racing, running a thousand miles per minute, only to arrive at same conclusion that Ron had reached a moment before.

It was inevitable.

Because Harry knew this witch. He had seen her from his desk in the Auror Department many times. He had routinely joked about her host of tiresome complaints with his fellow Aurors. No one took this witch seriously, after all. She was a bit of a joke, a persistent nuisance that everyone hoped would die; preferably sooner than later.

A pit of snakes started to writhe in his stomach, adrenaline flooding his veins. Because this witch's name was Martha Berkins.

And if his guess was right, it meant the world.

* * *

 **There was always a reason for spending half a chapter on Martha Berkins ;) T** **he pieces are slowly coming together now.**

 **I love hearing your thoughts and theories. Some of them are pretty spot on!**

 **My continued thanks to Frogster, as well as you: my readers. I hope you enjoy the rest of this ride =)**


	35. A Hydra's Head

"It's her," Ron croaked, eyes flicking between the two houses – Martha Berkins' and the missing man's from MCU. "Harry! Harry, do you understand?! She's been coming to the Ministry for– Oh, sweet Merlin, over a year now? And who did we put in charge of her case?! Bloody hell!"

Harry nodded sharply. "Rawlings," he whispered. "Rawlings was heading her case. Rawlings, who ran away... _Fuck!"_ He lifted a hand to run his fingers through strands of tousled hair. He couldn't believe it – it was so obvious – and yet no one, including them, hadn't been able to put the facts together until they were literally staring them in the face.

Martha Berkins had descended from her porch, and was slowly making her way towards them, following a snow cleared path. Watching her turtle-like approach and hastily returning the wand to his holster, Harry put everything he knew into context.

1\. Martha Berkins lived next to an _empty house that had once belonged a member of MCU._ A person that had been, in all likelihood, murdered by either Yaxley or Dolohov.

2\. For the past year, Mrs. Berkins had been complaining that someone was stealing _food and other basic necessities_ from her residence.

3\. Due to her history of miscellaneous and trivial allegations, no one had taken her seriously, and the case had been handed off to _Rawlings._ Rawlings, who was tied into this whole scheme and hadn't made any progress on the case in over a year.

...Over a _year._

It all made sense now: where Yaxley was hiding, why every auror was running ragged without a single thing to show for his effort. The MCU personnel had fallen through the cracks in the aftermath of the war; no one had followed up, and their files had been lost in the Ministry. The house had stood abandoned – anyone could have moved in.

He wasn't certain, of course – you _can't_ be one hundred percent certain in anything as an Auror, but it all folded into one neat little picture.

And that meant…

"He's here, Harry." Ron swallowed, clenching his fists. "It's where he's been hiding all this time – right under our noses."

"Should we alert HQ?"

The redhead hesitated, tracing his tongue over a pair of chapped lips. Molly would go bonkers if she saw. "He already had Rawlings on payroll," he said cautiously. "What if we just end up tipping him off? He'd run, and we'd lose him for good."

Old Mrs. Berkins was inching closer, and Harry made a snap decision.

"Just me and you then, partner," he said with a boyish grin and a twinkle in his verdant eyes. "Just like old times."

"Just like old times," Ron echoed, giving him a punch on the shoulder and then focused, because Mrs. Berkins had wandered into hearing range.

"It's about time," she was muttering crossly. "Thirty trips to the Ministry! A simple lack of respect, I say! Why in my day, I remember–"

"Mrs. Berkins!" Harry smoothly cut in. "My name's Mr. Potter, and this is my partner, Mr. Weasley. We're from the Auror Department, and we were hoping to–"

"I know that, _boy_ ," Martha acidly interrupted. "I'm old, not stupid! I can see the badges on your cloaks! I swear–"

"Mrs. Berkins, if I may," Ron said, "but can you tell us if the house next to yours is currently occupied?"

Martha paused, pursing her lips. "No," she answered with a glare. "Nobody's lived there since that Ballingtop fellow went missing, oh, must have been several months after the war. Don't know what happened to him. Worked for the Ministry I heard, some muggle issues. Strange little man, he was. Always kept to himself. No family. But I hardly see how this has anything to do–"

"So, you've seen no one living in that house for several years, correct? No comings or goings? No lights on in the evenings?"

"That's what I said, young man! Are you even qualified for your position? It's rude to interrupt, you know; my mother would always say that–"

" _HARRY! BY THE TREE!"_

Harry jerked his head, and heard it: the high-pitched whine of a incoming spell. His hairs stood on end, heart ramping up into overdrive. Grabbing Mrs. Berkins by her robes, he dove down into the street. A bolt of emerald light flashed by his nose, singeing the edge. Momentarily blinded, he hit the ground, gasping as the wind was knocked out of his lungs, and the bridge of his glasses cut into his skin. Mrs. Berkins fell nearby with a sickening crack and started to wail.

Somewhere to the side, Ron was shouting out stunning and binding spells, sending them in the direction of the empty house.

A second curse came flying towards Harry. He rolled to the side, hearing its frenzied whistle as it hit a heap of snow to his left. With a vengeful hiss, the frozen water sizzled, instantly turning to vapor.

Harry's wand was out in the next second. He was still lying prone on the ground, the snow on the lawns rising a foot or more above his head. It was a deceptive field of cover; instead of protecting him from enemy fire, it was just obstructing his view. Another spell ripped right through it, burning away snow and boiling concrete.

Blood was pounding in his ears, and then he felt a warning tingle on his skin. " _Protego!"_ he screamed, and felt the impact of a slicing hex tear into his shield. It drove him back, sliding his body over the ground.

"Hold on, Harry!" Ron yelled, and then cursed as a well-placed incantation caused him to dive behind a tree. He screamed out several spells of his own, bombarding the place where the enemy magic was coming from in a scattered pattern. This gave Harry a brief respite, which he used to quickly glance at the old woman next to him.

Mrs. Berkins' wail had devolved into whimpers. She was exposed, unable to move with one of her legs jutting out at an awkward angle. Harry lifted his body into a crouch, keeping up the protective charm as he scampered over to her.

"Mrs. Berkins!" he hissed, fumbling with his other hand in the pocket that held Auror essentials. Among them was a special piece of fragmented stone that served as a portkey. Every registered auror had one. In times of need, they could activate the stone, and it would transport them to the other half of the magical artifact – kept in the Ministry – allowing for a quick escape. "Mrs. Berkins!" Harry repeated, retrieving the stone and pushing it into her grip. "Breathe! This will take you to safety! You'll be alright, ok?! Mrs. Ber–Martha! Listen to me!"

Using her first name seemed to work. The old witch blinked, a grimace of pain twisting her lips, but she managed to turn her face towards Harry.

"I'll have your badge for this!" she hollered suddenly. "You broke my leg! I'll write to the _Prophet!_ I'll complain to the Minister! I'll–"

Another spell hit Harry's shield, splashing across the domed enclosure in a sparkle of vivid emerald droplets. Each one was filled with a deadly acid. One slid down onto an exposed portion of the old witch's robes, dissolving the fabric, and the woman shrieked. Harry grunted, doing his best to ignore her shrill cries, until he felt the magic in the artifact respond.

"This will take you to the Ministry!" Harry yelled, activating the magic in the stone. "You can write your complaint there! Now: on 3… 2… 1…!" The portkey _whirred_ , heating up the air and sucking Mrs. Berkins' body into a twister, which promptly disappeared with a pop. Harry, no longer burdened with a civilian, dashed over to the tree that Ron was hiding behind. Ron covered his movements with several bursts of magic.

Panting, Harry landed next to him, tucking his limbs behind the thick oakish trunk. "He's moving towards the house," Ron puffed, as a dislodged branch fell next to them. The tree shuddered periodically, large bits of bark and wood being blasted away.

"Why hasn't he Apparated?" Harry gasped, pressing his back into the tree, but then realized the answer. "Shit! He's got something there!"

"Probably evidence incriminating to his connection in the Ministry or maybe even a link to Dolohov!" Ron guessed and then peered over the edge of the trunk. " _IMPEDIMENTA!"_ he yelled. " _STUPEFY!"_

Harry saw the direction of his blasts – towards the house's porch – and added a few of his own. A shroud of blackness sprang up near their point of impact, swallowing the magic whole. A dark form moved within, quickly advancing towards the front door. Black robes in black dust – a familiar sight, one Harry had wished to never see again.

"We've got to intercept him!" he yelled. "If he destroys whatever he's after…!"

Ron nodded, shouting, "Call it in! We can't afford to lose him! Cover me… NOW!"

Harry jumped to his feet, his wand extended, bursts of light tearing into the darkness, ripping away oily clumps. Ron dashed forward, sprinting over the snow-covered lawn and jumping into the affected area head first, being careful to steer clear of his partner's spells. Harry took off after him, one hand still gripping the wand, the other reaching to press into his badge, fingers sweeping over the grooved metal in an intricate pattern.

The badge flashed once, twice, and then warmed to his touch. At this moment, alarm bells were going off in the Auror bullpen, signaling that a member of their department was in need of immediate assistance. His location would be tracked within minutes, and then a strike team of Aurors would apparate in.

He didn't have the time to wait for their arrival.

His feet burrowed into the snow, leaving a deep path as he ran over the lawn and up the porch steps. The shroud of darkness had dissipated, several strands still lingering near the ground. The door had been blasted in, revealing a foyer with exits to the left, right, and a staircase ascending to the second floor. Sounds of battle could be heard from above.

Harry leaped over the debris in the entranceway and bounded up the stairs, automatically marking the places where offensive magic had scoured the walls, leaving wide gashes weeping with plaster, dust and insulation. " _Expulso! Endara!"_ he heard someone's voice bellow and cringed.

The spells used against them were dark, intended to maim or murder. The Aurors could only respond with incapacitating magic; their objective was to apprehend and interrogate Yaxley, not kill him.

There was a passageway that led off to the second floor, but the noises were coming from higher up. The stairs turned and then continued on to the third level. A sharp crash suddenly echoed from above. Ron's form, enveloped in a fiery glow, appeared at the top of the staircase and rapidly tumbled down. Harry yelled, instinctively casting a cushioning charm and then felt Ron's body slam into his, knocking them both into the wall of the second floor.

"Ah.." he groaned, feeling a cracking in his ribs. Ron moaned, and Harry, biting his lips from the throbbing pain in his midsection, quickly scrambled out from underneath his friend's still form and tried to assess Ron's condition.

Ron looked bad. Half his hair was gone, a burn running down from his left temple, over his eye, and then down to his neck. Blood was pooling on the wooden floorboards, dripping down from his robes. Harry didn't see where the wound was. Weakly, Ron opened his other eye.

"Harry!" he croaked, with a grimace that made the wound on his face appear even more hellish. "I'm fine! Really! It's… fuck… superficial. I dodged the most… of it… just a cut on the shoulder… and the face." The redness of his injury was amplified by the paleness of his skin.

"Yeah right, 'you're fine'!" Harry snarled, starting to weave a standard healing charm, but Ron's hand shot forward and grabbed his wrist in a steely grip. "Harry!" Ron growled. "He was trying to set fire to the house! If he… destroys it, he'll apparate away! _You_ – _must_ – _stop_ – _him!_ I'll live, I'll fucking live, I promise you that, but you need to get the bastard!"

Harry glanced to his friend and then up the stairs, feeling torn. Every second was essential.

"I hit him too!" Ron rasped. "Go, before he's gets away. Please, Harry!"

Harry hesitated, and Ron summoned all of his strength to yell.

" _GO!_ "

Harry cursed, shot one last pleading look at his best friend, and raced up to the third floor. There was a short corridor here that led to a closed door. Wand out and heart thundering in his chest, Harry cautiously approached it. A cough echoed from downstairs, but here it was silent.

Harry held his breath and kicked the door open.

There was no one there.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Grinding his teeth together, Yaxley stumbled into the last room on the third floor, which contained a desk, filled with his papers; several cabinets; and a bureau that held little trinkets – personal items he had collected over the years. One of his hands was pressed to his abdomen, a half-hearted attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

He sent a locking charm at the door behind him and then almost collapsed on the floor. He didn't know how much time he had left.

The wand trembled in his hand, and blood dripped down the side of his robes. The Auror – a _Weasley_ , for you could never mistake those boundless freckles and strands of blazing hair – had managed to shoot out a hex moments before Yaxley's own spell pierced the redhead's defences and sent him barreling down the stairs.

Weasley's spell had missed Yaxley, but ricocheted along the corridor, striking a heavy wooden ornament along the way. The ornament had shattered, shards of needle-sharp wood spreading in every direction like buckshot. Several had ripped into Yaxley's stomach, tearing through his robes, and lodging themselves deep in muscle and meat. The pain had been incapacitating, making him pass out. His period of unconsciousness couldn't have lasted long, however, because when he opened his eyes, he was still in the corridor, and Aurors weren't slamming cuffs on his wrists.

Gasping from the pain, he had forced himself up and staggered into the suite, which led to a set of adjoining rooms.

He needed to get to the last one.

Shuffling towards it, Yaxley had mentally cursed Voldemort, the war, the Aurors, Potter – who could never die – as well as the fucking spells the Dark Lord had bound him with.

He growled, desperation making the notes low and heavy. Shock and despair warred in the confines of his mind. He had no fucking idea how Potter and Weasley had discovered him here. This house was safe – he'd used it as a base of operations for over a year now! How had they found him?! The Granger girl was still missing, Dolohov was concealed in the muggle world, and Yaxley hadn't left a single shred of evidence for the Aurors to follow him here.

 _Fuck._

He must have gotten lazy, complacent. He'd become tired of sitting here, avoiding public detection, and had left for a stroll. A Merlin-fucked stroll! Once! Just once he had left! And this was the price of his mistake: Apparating back, Weasley had caught sight of his cloak-covered form, leaving him no choice but to engage.

For he had to fight. He didn't want to – if it had been up to him, he'd have disappeared, apparating to safety. But this was where Voldemort's compulsions had kicked in. To them, the highest priority was not Yaxley's life, but protecting the Dark Lord's creation, his virus, and there were certain items in the house that could lead the Ministry straight to Dolohov. Voldemort's magic had seized control, preventing him from leaving until he had confirmed the destruction of everything that had the potential to endanger his unwilling partner. Howling from the sheer unfairness of it all, Yaxley had been forced to comply, which led to the fight on the lawn, in the house, and, finally, here, on the third floor.

His vision had narrowed, going dark, pain stabbing at his wooden splinters embedded in his gut. The desk. He had to burn the letters, the portkeys he had. Then, he'd be free. He could get away, finish this forsaken quest, and find peace on the shores of New Guinea, bathing in the warmth of a tropical sun.

More… just a little bit more...

The door buckled behind him. The hinges protested, creaking like a pair of withered crows. The locking charm held, but barely.

Yaxley raised his wand, forcing it still, and whispered, " _Incendio."_

Flames shot forth, catching on the curtains and the piles of papers on the desk. A sweltering wave of heat hit his lungs, pools of slippery smoke sliding up towards the ceiling.

The door behind him shuddered again and then exploded inward, catching Yaxley's shoulder with its edge. The impact knocked him to the ground, back against a wall, and he arched an arm over his hip to steady his descent. Tendrils of agony whipped through his body, but he held on tight, aiming his wand towards the opening where the door had been.

Facing him stood Harry Potter.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Cheeks flushed, Harry whirled his wand into an aggressive stance. Flame was licking the surface of a desk and the western wall, a beast with a famished maw that crackled with every consumed paper and scrap of wood. Yaxley was on the floor, strained, gasping, but unrelenting. He snarled desperately, cursing the auror. Black lightning flashed from his wand, shooting towards the scarred wizard. Harry deflected it, grimacing from a sting in his ribs, and countered the spell with one of his own.

Yaxley summoned a shield; it covered the wounded man, and Harry's magic rammed into it with a righteous howl. It was a continuous stream of energy, forcing Yaxley to keep up his defences. He couldn't move, couldn't dodge, just had to match his opponent, raw power to raw power.

It was a battle he was going to lose.

Immobile, Yaxley's posture resembled that of a coiled snake, wounded, but its fangs still dripping with deadly venom. Harry's magic dashed all around his shield, a mongoose on the hunt. It whizzed and feinted, probing for any weakness, ready to sink its fangs into the cobra's neck.

Yaxley was gasping, his wand barely holding still. He needed to run, but he couldn't Apparate without breaking his cover. The fire was growing, spreading eagerly over planks of dry wood. It bathed the two battle-locked wizards in a hellish light, casting shadow over their contorted features. Yaxley could feel the heat, and beads of sweat poured down his forehead; on his lips, they tasted of salt and despair.

Harry saw this weakness and redoubled his efforts. His mind was locked onto a picture of a girl that had lost both her parents in the Diagon Alley attack. The sucked-in cheeks, the hollow eyes. Her stare had been vacant, lost in the cavernous cacophony of unexpected heartbreak. She was but one of many; of thousands – muggles and wizards – that had been victims of the war. The dead, the wounded. The stacks of bodies covered by cheap Ministry-issue tarps.

They were the ones forever beyond his help.

More images flashed in his mind: Dumbledore falling from the tower; Hermione, lost in the muggle world; Ron, fighting for his life downstairs. The smiling faces of his friends and allies, all of whom were willing to die to keep him safe.

Just as many had.

Blue, oxygen-depleted veins were pulsing on Yaxley's temples, ready to burst. Harry's scar burned. He yelled furiously, reaching deep to channel all the hate and fury he had been taught by those who had denied him a happy childhood. His magic grew, pushing Yaxley's shield back, surrounding him in a glorious, fatal light. The wizard screamed, the energy burning his eyes, weakening his resolve.

The shield faltered, flickering weakly, and then burst apart into tiny fragments. Harry wrenched his wand up at the last moment; his magic slammed into the wall above Yaxley's head, cutting through the wood and rocketing into the street beyond.

Yaxley's back slumped with an air of capitulation. His hand fell to the floor, the wand loose in-between limp fingers.

It was quiet.

Harry's pants reverberated through the room. The heat was starting to become unbearable, as the fires steadily engulfed more of the enclosed area. Harry heard yells from downstairs; boots pounding on stairs. The cavalry had arrived.

Yaxley was looking at him with a defeated glint in his muddied eyes. Puddles of blood gathered near his feet.

"How did you know?" he rasped. Harry grinned ferally. "Hermione," he said. His wand was trained on Yaxley's chest. "That's right," he added, seeing a look of surprise flash over the older wizard's features. "We found her. She told us all about Voldemort's curse, and the lengths you went to conceal it. The people you killed. We followed their trail right here, to you, and you will lead us to Dolohov."

Yaxley nodded. "The mudblood," he sighed tiredly. "Of course… It all began with her, you know? Just as it will end, I feel…"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?" he spat.

Yaxley looked almost… disappointed. "It means," he replied, fingers rubbing over the wood of his weapon, "that I will not see New Guinea. It means that even after defeating the Dark Lord twice, Mr. Potter, you still lack the capacity to comprehend his plans. You don't have the faintest clue how he operated, and the ways in which he sought to compel his enemies… and allies. You think you can use me to discover The Dark Lord's gift? You are a fool, Mr. Potter. Brave, loyal, but beholden with a rare sort of myopia, unable to see past your own nose. A common trait among Gryffindors, I suppose." Yaxley licked his lips, eyes going dull, as if something was sapping his life energy. "You may triumph over Dolohov or you may not, but this conflict will never cease. You were born into a war, Harry, and you'll never shake its clutches. Just like me. Goodbye, Mr. Potter. I don't wish you luck."

The last words were spoken in a whisper. Harry leaned in to hear, and missed the moment when Yaxley's arm went rigid, darting with lighting speed. The wrist moved on its own accord, pointing the wand back. Harry realized what was happening. " _NO!"_ he yelled. " _STUPE_ –"

But it was too late. The wand was at Yaxley's neck, his eyes dim, lost, and a single word escaped his bloodied lips.

Yaxley's head ballooned, exploding into into bits of brain matter and bone. His headless corpse slumped on the floor, blood gushing out of a severed neck.

Harry looked on, shocked. His robes were speckled with the Death Eater's remains. " _Shit,"_ he swore, and then backed away from the body and the heat. He tried to put out the flames with an _aguamenti._ The spell came out weak, however; Harry's magic was spent from the battle. A pair of Aurors appeared over his shoulder.

"All right there, Potter?!" one of them yelled.

Harry dumbly nodded. He watched as the flames were extinguished, and Aurors flooded the room, cataloging every item. He was led downstairs, a medic squawking over his wounds. His adrenaline had waned, and rusty fatigue sunk into his limbs. It became hard to walk, and he sat down on some stool.

Yaxley's final words were pulsing in his ears with a prophetic vigor. _A war he could never shake…_

A tremor took his hands. Spots of wetness trailed down his cheeks, and he removed his glasses, trying to conceal this sudden weeping with the palms of his hands. Hunched over, The-Boy-Who-Lived was left alone for that moment, Aurors, forensic specialists, and medical personnel just wandering by.

Harry felt oddly detached from everything, like he was far away, looking down. His scar was aching again, a wound that would never truly heal.

Harry hoped Ron was alive, and that Hermione was safe. He wanted his friends, and he wanted his wife.

His shoulders shook, and he sat there, shuddering, a rock in a lonely sea. He just wanted the bloody war to end.

But he knew that it wouldn't.

* * *

 **I'm on vacation, so the chapters are gonna come a bit more quickly. Yay?**

 **I also managed to screw up the continuity between Hermione/Draco and Harry/Ron. So, there's a bit of a time jump between them. I'll expand on this in a foreword on the next chapter.**

 **I hope I was able to articulate the importance of Martha Berkins, who was, as it turned out, not important at all. At least, directly. :D**

 **I've killed 39 mosquitoes in the past four days, but it doesn't matter. There's plenty more. I must have ambrosia for blood.**

 **And, finally, a little scene adjusted from a movie:**

 **A crowd of people stand before a lit stage. Draco ascends it, microphone in hand. Music starts playing, and he sings.**

 **"Weasley doesn't know, that Hermione and me do it on my broom every Sunday! She tells him she's in church, but she doesn't go..."**

 **Sorry. The melody and the words have been stuck in my head for two days. ("On my broom" is credited to a guest reviewer, as it's so much more clever than what I wrote initially). Original version from Eurotrip.**


	36. Home

**Due to my screw-up, the Hermione/Draco timeline is a bit disjointed from Harry/Ron's. H and D are catching up in days now, which I hope doesn't confuse anyone.**

 **This is a rather short chapter, I'm sorry, and it's rather filler as I indulged into writing in several memories of my childhood.**

* * *

Thirty-five kilometers north of the Trans-Siberian Railway and somewhere between the small blue-collar towns of Kusa and Urgala, hidden on the rugged slopes of the Ural Mountains, lies the ancient hold of the Dolohov family.

The terrain here lacks the jagged edges and sharp summits of its younger cousins. Unlike the Rockies or the Himalayas, the peaks in this land don't pierce the sky anymore; like Atlas, they're content to shoulder its burden with the cool dispassion of old age. But don't mistake maturity for senescence: the land, still, is deadly to the unwary traveler. It demands respect and preparation, and one lacking the foresight to plan ahead will easily find himself lost among thickets of pine and spruce, succumbing to the elements, drowning in bogs or collapsing into deep ravines.

Despite the dangers, the mountains are generous. Rich in lumber, ore, fur, and precious metal, they reward greatly those who cherish their value. _Dachas_ cling to their sides, with villagers flocking to the wooden residences in early spring, staying till when the cold northern winds start to blow by mid-september. They plant the food that will sustain them through the harsh winter, harvesting squash, tomatoes, pumpkin, onions, garlic, cabbages, potatoes and cucumbers. The evenings, after a full day of hard labor, are spent playing cards over mugs of _chai_ , mixed in with freshly-picked blueberries, raspberries, or gooseberries.

The odd car will rumble over the potholed village road, but, excepting that, it is quiet and serene.

One peak stands above the others, a worn out rock jutting out from its pinnacle. Locals call it 'the fang'. It does resemble a fang, in a away: a torn out tooth of some mythical beast that lies buried beneath the mountains. There's a path that begins near it – a path that no muggle can see, but that will lead the wayward explorer to a series of valleys clothed in a verdant dress of evergreen forest with seams of frigid water streams. One of the valleys is warded stronger than the others; here, over a thousand years ago, a wizarding family, fleeing persecution in the east, made camp on a cold and windblown night, and then stayed, building up their home into fortress of stone, magic, and life.

Hermione saw it from the sky; _Drakosha's_ wings beating rhythmically around her. Draco had fallen asleep during their journey, his head lulled in the crook of her shoulder, but Hermione had spent the time contemplating her recent thoughts on the virus.

As with any weapon, its existence was a double-edged sword. In the proper hands it could be wielded for justice, but, should it fall into the wrong ones, and the repercussions would be biblical. Knowledge of its existence would have to be limited to a circle of one… maybe two, counting Draco. He'd understand its value.

Hermione also considered the muggle dilemma, ultimately deciding that an application of the virus would be premature. There was still time; besides, surely there were more viable alternatives to genocide. She didn't win a war over a homicidal megalomaniac just to become one. However, she was loathe to leave its potential untapped. There were so many ways to exercise the spell's power for the greater good.

One of the virus's primary objectives was to reprogram the human mind. Voldemort's version amplified aggressiveness and hostility, thus enhancing a propensity for violent crime. But, conversely, couldn't it be used to make people more malleable to others' beliefs? The wizarding world was still rife with prejudice, and discrimination against muggleborns and magical creatures, while not as grave as before, was still very much active.

But, if the virus was altered to boost a host's levels of empathy and tolerance, then she could eliminate the root of this injustice. People would become respectful towards one another; blood wouldn't matter. She could force the existence of an egalitarian, peaceful society that valued human rights, and if that meant she had to overwrite a few thousand bigoted personalities, well… this omelette was worth cracking a few eggs for, right?

Political opponents and opposition leaders could be swayed in a similar fashion. Hermione had a plan, after all – a vision of how she thought the world should be. Turning that dream into reality had become suddenly so much simpler. Instead of an upwards battle in the ministry, campaigning for her beliefs against advocates of a pureblood agenda and compromising on legislation, she could use the virus to pass any law she wanted. She could _make_ the ministry – and the people – agree with her.

Hermione still remembered Bellatrix's bulging eyes bubbling with insanity. The hate, disgust and vitriol she spewed simply because Hermione's blood boasted a muggle origin. _Mudblood_ , she'd carved into her skin – an everlasting reminder. Well, that inscription had stayed, but Bellatrix was dead, and Hermione had vowed to destroy everything the crazy witch had stood for.

This was the most direct route.

There had been a jostle in their flight then, and her thoughts had turned to Draco. Idly, she'd brushed a few silky strands of pale hair from his forehead, frowning at the temperature. It wasn't sickly, but his skin radiated a little too much heat for comfort. She'd cast a cooling charm, wondered at how comforting it was to have a loved one by your side, and then rested the rest of the way.

The Dolohov estate came into view with the last seconds of the setting sun. The mountains, like the shoulders of a slumbering giant, cast long shadows over the craggy ground. It sparkled in rays of ebbing light; snow and ice framing this untouched, vast expanse in a diadem of pearly-white. Hermione softly nudged her beau awake. He blinked his eyes groggily, and a sheepish smile tugged on a pair of chapped lips.

"We're here," she whispered, butterflies in her belly.

This was it, she thought. The final rest before confronting Voldemort's evil. With a blood potion brewed by a relative, they could track down Antonin Dolohov and end this war. All those months in the muggle world, her magic locked away…

…and she would have her revenge.

Draco must have realized the distant paths her mind had wandered, because he gave her a long, solemn glance. "Not so long now," he said in agreement.

They landed in a puff of snow, clouds of flurries beaten up by the force of _Drakosha's_ wings. Anastasia hopped off, chest expanding as she took in a big gulp of crisp air. She looked around herself with the gaiety of a sailor back from a long voyage; a soldier arriving from a year-long deployment in a distant, murky land. Her journey had been long, lonely, and, finally, she was...

"Home!" she exclaimed, exhaling, as a wide smile burst forth. She spun around, her laugh tinkling like a pair of silver bells during the holiday season. She was the epitome of happiness at this moment, and, with one look in her direction, Hermione felt the bitter stab of envy rip into the very center of her soul. Why couldn't she be so happy? Why didn't she have a home?

Her vision became blurry then, and she looked away, blinking several times. A heavy lump formed in her throat as she thought about the meaning of the word. _Home._ A place where you feel safe, where you benefit from the most precious gift in the universe – unconditional love. Somewhere you're cared for and accepted for who you really are. Hermione had something similar to that – she had her friends, for which she was eternally grateful – but she didn't have a _home._ What she owned was… a house. A building made of wood on the edge of a forest where she spent her lonely nights, falling asleep to the sound of wind and pained memories.

A hand touched on her shoulder. "Are you alright?" Draco whispered.

Hermione sniffed, shrugging, and wiped the corners of her eyes. "It's hard, sometimes," she admitted, "to see what you do not have."

Draco considered that for a moment, watching as Anastasia, eager and radiant, ran around her 'little' (he was bigger than a house) pet, calling him ' _moi malenkiy'_ and planting smooches on the scaled exterior. She was caught up in the moment, her grin infectious, her eyes beaming with the innocent delight of a child welcoming a new day.

Draco didn't have any worldly advice to share, no profound knowledge to impart. He sighed and shrugged and simply said: "I know."

Hermione snorted, leaned back for a second, feeling his body bear some of her weight, and then pushed off, walking forward to face whatever the future would bring.

She did so with a spring in her step.

* * *

 **As always, thank you for your reviews.**


	37. Babushka

The sun had set now, and the chill in the valley went bone-deep. Slowly, inevitably, Hermione's pace started to falter. All the recent events – the hunt for Dolohov, the Shabash, the night with Draco, even the flight on _Drakosha's_ back – came to rest on her suddenly stumbling form. Her steps became heavy, a weary ache settling in the dip between her shoulders. Her mind hadn't had any time to process, file or organize what all of this meant for her. She desperately needed time to slow down, and let her think, to restore even a modicum of emotional stability.

She also didn't want to do it alone.

So when Anastasia turned, telling them that she'd have her elves prepare a set of rooms, Hermione nudged up to Draco, sending him a brief, shy and pleading look.

He understood. Harry or Ron wouldn't have, but he did. "One," he said, and then coughed and had to clarify: "One room."

"Oh." Anastasia looked down, her cheeks turning the color of late-summer cherries. "Of course."

...Hermione was out before her head hit the pillow, and Draco's too warm body settled in carefully by her side.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

The cosmos stretched on a canvas of midnight, stars and moons twinkling with celestial grace. Partnered since the dawn of time, they danced across the heavens as the world slowly turned, revolving on its axis. It brought on a different dawn: one tinged with the delicate pink of a dew-capped rose, blooming over the mountains to herald the start of a new day.

It reached forward, brushing over woods and snow, and painted the cheek of sleeping girl in hues of orange and cream. Her eyelashes fluttered under its tickling touch, and she sighed, comfortably spooned against a pale wizard with hair of silver and light. Lines of anxiety creased the young man's forehead; pupils, hectic, darted under closed lids. He moaned from time to time, but the girl didn't notice; she was safe, warm, and felt more secure than she had in years.

She dreamed of a sailboat in the arms of a sea, of wind in her hair and salt on her lips. A pair of seagulls darted above. One was the softest shade of eggshell; the other – dark as buckwheat honey. They flew together, dipping with the bow of the ship, following its movements, and their cries echoed across the endless expanse of foamy blue.

But then the wind changed, becoming stronger, and the skies darkened. A mighty gust came from the north, breaking apart the two birds. It carried the pale one far away, until its shrill and panicked cries became lost in the roar of the storm. It disappeared in the distance, and the darker seagull was left alone, mourning for the loss of its love...

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

When she woke, Hermione's heart fluttered frantically. Wisps of frightful dreams faded in her consciousness. She tried to grasp them, to hold onto their escaping forms, but found that she couldn't. They slipped through her fingers, melting away like fog under the morning sun, until nothing was left but a faint echo of worry. Hermione frowned, but then, as her hand skimmed over the bedsheets, her expression softened, and a dreamy smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

The reason for this was simple: the bedsheets were warm. Draco had left – she could hear him washing up in the en-suite bathroom – but the heat of his body was still trapped between the covers and under the hand-embroidered comforter; this, she could feel with the palm of her hand.

Feeling giddy, nervous and scared – all at the same time – Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, reveling in the intimacy it brought. This wasn't just her bed – it was _their bed._ Her and Draco's. She squealed softly and then, overcome by emotion, rolled over to his side, burrowing her head into his pillow. It smelled just like him: masculine, rum with a touch of spice. When she raised her head, she saw that she had shed one of her hairs onto the white cotton. It lay next to his: eggshell and honey side by side.

They looked well together.

Comforted by the thought, Hermione thrust the covers away, stood, and tiptoed over to a vanity with a large mirror. Her reflection stared back sullenly, arms crossed and lips pouty.

"It came again tonight," the reflection huffed. "The monster." Hermione surveyed the disaster in front of her and gave a heavy sigh. There was no point in arguing – the proof was right there, before her very eyes.

Now, this Monster the girls spoke of isn't some clever allegory to terrible, sweat-and-scream-inducing nightmares, nor is it a factual description of a heinous villain that crept into her bedroom and chuckled menacingly while sharpening a pair of butchers knives.

No. This terror was very much real. You see, for most of her life, during her time of slumber, Hermione Granger had the great misfortune to be the target of…

...the Hair Monster. That's right. A beast most terrible and foul, it had stalked her since childhood, waiting patiently each night until she fell asleep. It didn't matter what measures she took nor what sacrifices she offered. The Hair Monster would always come and feed and then leave her to wake up to a frizzy mess that would make even the mangiest cat give her a look that inevitably vacillated between pity and morbid amusement.

Which is why, when Draco walked in from the en-suite and started to laugh, she became thoroughly miffed and responded by throwing a pillow. It hit him right on the nose, which made her feel proud right up until he chucked it back. Now, it bopped _her_ on the nose, and then, the next second, his fingers were on her sides, tickling till she squawked and screamed and toppled over on the bed, laughing breathlessly until his lips were on her neck, pressing a series of urgent kisses into skin as fair as snow.

A part of her noted the care with which he positioned himself. He was by her side, making sure not to lock her in with his body, lest he trigger her fears. She smiled, melting into him as their breaths became heated, and his hands trailed down to palm one of her breasts, giving it an affectionate, needy squeeze. A moan rose from the back of her throat, as her nipples hardened under the stimulation. Her arms rose to trace the plane of his back, going up to ruffle his hair, before coming to a stop on his chest and gently pushing him back.

His face was flushed, eyes feverish. She brushed a few strands of hair from his forehead and whispered, "Not now. Tonight."

He looked concerned. "Are you sure?"

Hermione was more than sure. She leaned forward, pecking his lips in response, and then rose, swaying her hips as she walked to the bathroom. She was the spitting image of confidence, but the truth was, she was just a single inch away from melting into a sappy puddle of goo on the floor. She passed the mirror on her way, enabling her to spot that his eyes were glued to her rear. Hermione smirked, her step a little straighter then, her reflection throwing back a saucy wink.

Even this simple act of flirting made her feel powerful and alive. She sighed again and thought about how much she wanted to stay here, cuddling next to Draco under the fluffy covers, until the sun reached its zenith and then fell, yielding to the tender touch of night. But she couldn't, because there was a job to do and a murderer to apprehend.

Dolohov was close – she could feel it in her her very bones.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

...Her bones lied; in hindsight, not at all surprising, considering that the study of divination is a simmering pot of hoax, mixed in with copious amounts of alcohol and peppered with mystical gobblydegook. Dolohov wasn't _that_ close at all, because Anastasia's _babushka,_ who was the only one capable of brewing the tracking potion they sought, was out.

Out.

Antonin Dolohov was busy killing muggles, raping and pillaging to his tiny, shriveled, putrid heart's delight, and their connection to him had gone _out_ , an action more applicable to a randy teenager than a centuries-old crone. "Vat can I say," Anastasia said with an apologetic shrug to her shoulders. "She does zis. Leaves for day, maybe two sometime. She vill return soon, and I vill know ven she does. Hungry?" Abruptly, she changed topics. "You vant vodka with blin or blin with vodka?"

Hermione suffered a moment of abject horror which only grew when, with a sly grin, Anastasia added: "Or maybe vodka with vodka? Try: breakfast of champion!" The Gryffindor, realizing she was being teased, scowled.

Draco was famished. With gaunt cheeks and eyes lit with hunger that reminded her of Ron after a lengthy game of quidditch, he tore through plate after plate. For the entire breakfast's duration, his wand never left his hands, as he entertained the two girls with all sorts of silly charms. Hermione wanted to worry, but she kept laughing, and, by the end of their meal, he did look much better. Anastasia, anxious to visit some of her animals, left shortly thereafter, and the two companions were left to themselves.

They spend the day outside, calmly walking the grounds, until Hermione made the mistake of going ahead and then ' _whoofed'_ as a snowball slammed into her back. Whirling around, she gave her compatriot, who looked entirely too innocent for anyone's good, her most contemptuous glare. Attacking from behind – _really!_ She then noticed that one of his hands was hiding behind his back and felt a tingle of magic.

Hermione dodged the second snowball just in time.

"Oh, it's on, mister," she growled, retrieving her own wand to charm three dozen snowballs into an artillery barrage that would have made even the most experienced German bombardier at Verdun proud.

Draco weaved, dodging in his cheating ways (he always had been an slippery git), and responded with his own cannonade. She parried with a wall of ice, feeling smug at the sounds of impact. Not a single one of Draco's snowballs came even close to hitting her. "Ha!" she yelled, victorious, dispelling her cover...

…and falling right into her opponent's trap. During the time her vision had been obstructed, Draco had sprinted forward and lunged at the girl the second her defenses fell. Hermione, with a high-pitched ' _eeeeek!',_ tumbled into the snowdrifts, shrieking from the sudden cold on her neck.

"Prat!" she screamed, trying to smack him on the back as he rolled them over several times, covering their clothes in layers of frosty icing. She ended up on top, and he lifted his head to sneak a quick kiss onto the rosy tip of her nose.

"Nope," he quipped, leaning back with an ear-to-ear grin, "it's Draco, not Chris."

"Oh my… You idiot," she stated with an aggravated roll of her eyes, but then giggled as he tried to tickle her through the fabric of her sleek winter cloak.

They spent the next hours outside, and Anastasia joined them soon after for a battle of bewitched snowmen, although 'snowmen' wasn't the most fitting description for their creations. Draco's monster stomped around on massive hind legs, looking like some T-Rex out of a certain Hollywood franchise. Hermione, just to spite her schoolmate, made a basilisk with one of the ugliest snouts ever. It slithered over the ground, trying to constrict its opponents and lashing out with a whip-like tail. Anastasia claimed the home-field advantage, conjuring a sleek Siberian tiger with fangs and claws of the sharpest ice.

The battle was legendary.

Like Napoleon at Waterloo, Draco gained the initial advantage. Hat askew, and hair waving in the breeze, he brandished his wand like a sword, commanding his army of one as it charged over the snow to chase down its adversaries. With every jab of Draco's weapon, it reached down to snap its massive jaws, the snake and the tiger barely escaping death between its mighty fangs. The blond, believing his battle to be won, smirked triumphantly.

Overconfidence always has been the bane of men. It took one sly look between the two witches, and suddenly the snake and tiger pivoted, now working in tandem. Hermione's creation lunged forward, tangling in the beast's legs, bringing it down with a earth-shattering crash. Pouncing on the back, the tiger raked its claws, cutting deep gouges into the snow-crusted hide. Draco's eyes popped from indignation, his wand a flurry of movement in a futile attempt to save his creation. It was all for naught. Hermione's serpent bound itself around it, constricting any movement, while Anastasia commanded her handiwork to sever the head.

With one final, pitiful roar, Draco's beast shuddered and fell silent. "Cheaters," the wizard complained to no one in particular, watching as the rest of the battle took place. His pout didn't last long, however: soon, he was yelling out advice to Hermione like a spectator at a quidditch match. His zealous strings of " _No, go left! Left! No, not now! What are you doing?! Turn!"_ only succeeded in distracting her. Hermione started yelling back and missed the moment when the tiger dodged an attack, rotated in midair, and sunk its jaws into the serpent's midsection.

"I vin!" Anastasia gleefully hopped up and down.

"Your fault," Hermione growled menacingly to Draco, but then left to give the raven-haired girl her congratulations. The tiger wandered up, purring and rubbing its sides against their thighs, before dispersing into thousands of snowflakes.

Dinner was spent over a small table, where Hermione, recalling Draco's words on pureblood dining etiquette, kept trying to steal her friends' food until they gave in and tried to steal it back. Hogwarts had never had any notable food fights, and Hermione vowed she would find a way to remedy such a travesty. It was much too fun, although she did feel a pang of guilt when the house-elves had to clean everything up.

Still: it was their job, they legitimately enjoyed it, and Anastasia treated them well.

She looked around the room at one point: at the crackling logs in the fireplace, the warm mugs of cocoa in their hands, the soft glow of Draco's eyes, reflecting the light of the flame. She heard the wail of the northern wind outside, buffeting the house, breaking across its exterior like a wave against the bow of a ship. It was cold there, freezing, desolate, but here, between the cozy armchairs and the sounds of laughter, it was warm in more ways than one.

It reached into her very soul.

It was past midnight when they retired, Draco leading her up the stairs. Her pulse was racing, and Draco's palm caressed the small of her back. She traced his jaw and lips before the door closed behind them.

The night was cold, long, and entirely ignored by the young couple. They spent the time learning each other's secrets, succumbing to the reaches of sleep only the when the silver bow of the new moon started to lean below the mountains. It fell, and the sun rose, and they rested together, smiles on tired lips.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

On the dawn of the third day, Hermione heard a rustle in their room, and woke to Anastasia's soft nudges. "She is here," the girl whispered, and Hermione's mind went on full alert. The identity of the 'she' was obvious.

Thirty minutes later, they were trudging across the snow to a small hut near the edge of the Dolohov property. Draco was walking last. When they woke up, Hermione thought his skin was much more pale than usual, but by the time she returned from the loo, his face had regained some of its color. Draco twirled his wand as he walked, keeping up a comfortable warming charm on the three of them. Hermione argued at first, claiming she was capable enough to cast the magic herself, but her – her, oh sweet Circe, labels were immature, but he was her _boyfriend,_ wasn't he? – her boyfriend insisted and she relented.

They marched forward, snow crunching under fur-lined boots. Scores of evergreens, like watchful sentinels, rose around them, boughs bowed to winter's frosty weight. Hermione saw it first: a small dwelling made of carved wood with a spiral of smoke rising from a chimney. Lines of white decorated the exterior, framing the windows. She mistook it for snow at first, but then, at a closer approach, realized the decorations were less than celebratory.

They were bones. Children's bones.

"She is old," Anastasia explained, taking in their apprehensive expressions. "One of the first of my family. Times were… different then."

Hermione stared at the little fingers, skulls and ribs. Magic always had a darkness to it, and the farther one went into the past, the more uninhibited it became. "How old?" she asked.

The Russian girl shrugged. "She married into our family around 800 years ago. How old she was zen, I do not know. But she has cared for us ever since."

Hermione felt Draco walk up beside her and pause. "So she's not human then?" he asked, unsurprised.

"Baba Yaga." Hermione startled. She had heard of the magical creatures; powerful demi-human witches that always played an ambiguous role in Slavic folklore. They could help or harm on a whim.

"And these were…?" Hermione pointed to the scores of bones.

"A vay to prolong her life. To remain beautiful and young. She does not do zis anymore, and it has taken itz toll. Come. You did zis once, my friend."

Hermione turned to give her a quick smile and then a hug. "I did, didn't I?" she whispered into the tresses of Anastasia's raven-like hair, which smelled of edelweiss. "I was right here, and I could have ended this all months ago, if I hadn't been foolish and tried to do it alone."

The witch hugged her back. "You are not alone now," she answered and then let go.

They walked up to the cabin, snowdrifts covering up to half of its walls. Anastasia cleared her throat and rattled off a quick phrase in Russian. Draco sniggered.

"What?" asked Hermione curiously. "What's it mean?"

"Oh, the know-it-all doesn't know?" he teased. She shot him a withering glare. "Alright, alright," he added quickly, as the hut suddenly groaned. "Baba Yaga residences always face away from any guest – it's part of their magic." The noises from the building were increasing in volume, and it started to shudder. Draco continued. "So, whenever you approach one, you have to request entrance, but the phrase is… humorous, in a way."

"How does it go?"

Draco laughed again. "It's something along the lines of 'Hut, oh hut, turn your front to me and your ass to the woods.'"

Hermione snorted. "It does not–" she began to argue, but then the hut rose – actually lifted itself out of the snow on a pair of enormous chicken feet – and laboriously shuffled around, sheets of snow flying off the roof. Draco quickly conjured a soft shield to protect them – the wand had never left his hand.

The hut grumbled one last time and the dropped back down, settling into the snow. The side with the door – framed by more bones – faced them now. The tiny digits rattled as they approached, a drumbeat of death. It might have intimidated someone else, but Hermione thought it sounded tacky.

The door creaked open, and Anastasia walked through. Hermione, taking a deep breath, followed.

Wan morning light filtered in through the windows. Hermione squinted, observing that an additional source of illumination came from a wide stove placed against the back wall. A necklace of garnets – coals – flickered within. Bundles of herbs lined the walls. Their scent was strong, cloying.

"I said that you would return."

A shape emerged from the shadows. The _babushka._ Bright as topazes, a pair of eyes glittered in the darkness, pupils thin and vertical. Her skin was creased, textured like the bark of a tree. A hooked nose sported several warts above a mouth filled with needle-sharp teeth. The old witch turned to her granddaughter and barked something in Russian. Anastasia hesitated and then, with a quick apologetic look towards her two friends, scampered away.

"I'm sorry?" Hermione asked uneasily.

"You came back." The crone's english had an odd accent. Not Russian, not European, but something old, something… ancient. "Just like the bones foretold."

"The bones?"

The witch reached into the depths of her cloak to withdraw a set of bones. Cackling, she threw them onto the wooden floorboards, sending them spinning to her guest's feet. "The bones never lie," she rasped. "Thus, you are here. You failed your task, girl."

Hermione hesitated before responding. "I did not kill Antonin, yes," she finally agreed.

"You couldn't have. It was not his time." When the brunette didn't respond, the old witch cocked her head and inquired: "You still have no faith in destiny?"

Hermione had the distinct sense she was being tested – and her test-taking radar was rather acute – but she could not fathom a guess as to the test's purpose or methodology.

"I believe in myself," she replied hesitantly. "In my actions and thoughts."

"You have said those words before," came the disappointed response. "You have not learned yet. But you will. The moon is new, and the time is coming. We all have our part to play. I am the crone here, and you – the girl. In the next life, who knows? Maybe I will be the girl, and you – the crone. It has all happened before, and will repeat again and again, till the sun expands only to die in a halo of fire and be reborn." She laughed, eyes burning yellow and black.

Hermione had had enough of this mystical nonsense and snapped: "Since you knew I was predestined to return, have you brewed the potion we seek?"

The witch's laugh cut out. "So eager," she growled, "to receive that which you will not need. Do you insist on acquiring it?"

"I do."

"Then there is the question of payment. What will you give me in return for my blood?"

At a loss, Hermione turned towards Draco. His jaw was stiff, fists clenched. It seemed like he wasn't even paying attention to the scene before him.

"Don't look to the boy," the voice boomed. "Answer! What will give?"

"I…" Hermione cast about for an answer. "I don't know. What do you want?"

"That wasn't the question. Answer the question."

"I don't know!" Hermione cried out. A headache pounded in her head, and the smells from the herbs intensified, making her feel woozy. "I can give whatever is in my power to give! I don't have money, jewels, or any kind of–"

"Material riches pose no interest me. I will take one thing. When you find Antonin, he will show you the future and then try to rip it away. Should you survive the encounter, you will bring it to me."

The world was whirling before Hermione's eyes, and she couldn't focus, not one bit. "Bring you… the future?"

"The future, child, yes. Do you agree?"

"...How can I–"

"That wasn't the question. Do you agree or no?"

Hermione stumbled, holding onto Draco, who felt as cold as ice. "I agree…" she whispered and saw the old witch smile grotesquely.

"Then the potion will be ready in two nights," she said, clapping her hands three times.

By the third clap, the world spun like a dradle, turning black, till only the eyes of the Baba Yaga remained, glowing like gems in the dark.

And then, they were gone.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Hermione woke up, coughing. Anastasia felt her forehead and then brought a glass of water to her lips. The brunette drunk greedily, till the glass was empty, and then she leaned back with a contented sigh. She was back in her bed. The memories of their trip to the Baba Yaga were foggy, but she knew she had bargained away something precious.

Still, anything was worth finding Dolohov.

She jerked when Anastasia handed her a newspaper. " _Babushka_ said to bring you zis," followed the explanation. Hermione read the headline and gasped. It was _The Prophet._ " **Corban Yaxley Killed!"** it proclaimed, and then, lower: " **Potter and Weasley Deliver Justice To Victims Of Diagon Alley Attack!"**

Every single hair on the witch's body stood on end. Harry! And Ron! They had caught Yaxley! This was huge! She needed to speak with Harry right away – they hadn't been in contact for several days now. Oh, she missed him so!

Maybe Harry could organize a portkey here; they needed to group up for when the blood potion was ready anyway. A quick trip to London with Draco… and then they could all be back here, ready to take on the monster that had terrorized so many for so long. Antonin Dolohov wouldn't even see what hit him.

With a smile on her lips, Hermione jumped up. Her worries receded, till they were just mist in the distance, hazy and unclear. She would see Harry and Ron; introduce – properly introduce – them to Draco, and then they would all be happy.

Nothing could go wrong, she felt.

Nothing at all.


	38. Her Old, Unfinished Letter

**As you read this chapter, please keep in mind that none of my characters have ever displayed wandless magic. It doesn't exist as far as this fic is concerned, with the exception of moments of extreme emotional distress (this is to address the scenes with Hermione at Malfoy Manor yelling at Bellatrix and her in the hotel room when she confided in Draco).**

* * *

Twenty minutes and several Apparitions later, Hermione was able to find a place with cell reception and called Harry. He must have either been nearby or waiting for her call, because he picked up instantly and started yelling into the receiver, just like a Weasley.

That family really was rubbing off on him, Hermione thought smugly.

"Hermione!" her old friend hollered. "Hermione, where have you been?! You won't believe what–"

"Shhh. I know, Harry, I've read the papers. Yaxley. Are you alright? And Ron? What happened?" _The Daily Prophet_ had been, unsurprisingly, rather vague on the specifics. How such a rag had ever become wizarding Britain's main source of information was beyond her.

Harry quieted down. "Ron's fine," he said. "Bit of scarring, but he's being chipper about it. Says it'll just make the ladies like him more."

Hermione rolled her eyes and smiled, although the latter slowly waned as Harry told her about the lead he and Ron had been following – the trail of missing people from MCU that had finally brought them to the Death Eater's hideout. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself," Harry muttered despondently into the muggle contraption. "He'd been living there for over a year. Just took the house for himself and loaded up on groceries from old Martha Berkins next door. She'd been complaining about it for some time, but among all her other allegations – things going missing, poltergeist in her attic, stuff like that, everyone just thought she was off her rocker! And I was laughing at her along with everybody else! One visit, Hermione! That's all it would've taken! One damn visit to Berkins and we would have caught the bastard so much earlier!"

"Harry, you can't blame yourself," Hermione scolded. "No one knew. Besides, you've been fighting this war since you were an infant; if anything, you've gone above and beyond–"

"That was different," Harry shot back. "I was fighting for my survival back then. But this… I'm an _Auror,_ Hermione. This was _my job,_ and I failed. I was unprofessional, and all those hurt and dead… it's my fucking fault. If I hadn't let the case be handed off to Rawlings and ignored–"

"Harry James Potter, you sit down and you listen to me!" Hermione barked in the signature bossy tone that was so reminiscent of her school days. "Nobody, and I repeat, _nobody_ has done more for this world than you, and that includes Albus _fucking_ Dumbledore! So you take this misplaced guilt and you shove it up your scarred behind! You cannot carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, blaming yourself for everything that goes wrong! Mistakes happen – I'm living proof to that! Now you learn from them and let your friends share the burden of guilt, or I swear that I'll come over there to nag you till your scar turns blue! In fact, not only will I do that, but–"

She paused her rant at the sound of chuckling. "What?" she snapped. "What's so funny all of a sudden?!"

"No, I'm sorry, Hermione." Harry's laugh died down, his tone growing serious. "You're right. It's just… I haven't heard you be so passionate or alive for eternity, it seems. It's just like that spew thing in fourth year: you've found a cause and committed yourself to it."

"S.P.E.W.," she corrected him automatically and then said: "But I know what you mean. I had distanced myself, but now…things are different now. Something's changed."

"Something?"

"I'll tell you later," Hermione replied, unwilling to get into the whole story about where her journey with Draco had taken them. It wasn't exactly a phone conversation.

She heard Harry sigh and imagined him running a hand through his tousled hair, pausing to rub the edge of his scar. "Alright," he said. How about your mission then?"

"I've got the potion," Hermione answered, grateful that he hadn't pressured her on the topic.

"The blood potion? To find Dolohov?"

"Anastasia's _babushka_ says it'll be ready in two days."

"So, in two days…" Harry began, and Hermione finished the thought: "...this story will end."

Neither said anything for a moment, letting the gravity of the statement sink it.

Hermione took several breaths, exhaling slowly, watching the vapor condense in the biting winter air. Braving the chill, a pair of birds twittered merrily in the nearby trees. Their harmonious melodies danced over the frozen land, and flakes of snow softly pattered down, adding on to an already thick blanket. The Dolohov homestead couldn't be seen – it was about twenty miles north of her current location, and the view here was…The mountains stood before her, armored in breastplates of silvery-white. Rugged and vast, they seemed to encompass the whole world. She'd like to return here someday, she realized. Spend the summer, maybe. With Draco. Anastasia said the alpine meadows would bloom with colors so bright they could hurt your eyes.

"...Hermione?"

"Right, sorry," she muttered, shaking off the misplaced sentiments. The time for them would come later. "Harry, we need to meet up. I want us to track down Antonin the second the potion's ready."

"I was thinking the same thing, actually," Harry responded. "I can have you in London by evening."

Hermione had trouble containing her surprise. "You can have a Portkey for our area that quick?"

Harry barked a laugh. "Hermione," he said, "by catching and killing Yaxley, it's as if I'm the second coming of Merlin. Or like I finished off Voldemort… again. Everyone is just fawning over me. I could demand a dozen virgins for some terrible satanic sacrificial rite, and everyone's biggest concern would be whether I preferred blondes or brunettes. So, yeah, I can get a Portkey to pretty much wherever right now, just tell me the coordinates. Actually…"

"Yes?" Hermione prompted.

"It's just something I was meaning to speak with you about. Look, this is all hush-hush at the moment, but when we caught up to Yaxley, he was attempting to destroy mounds of incriminating evidence on pretty much all of his connections at the Ministry. Some of it burned, but most of it didn't, and we got all that data, catalogued and cross-referenced. When it becomes public, it'll be an uproar; three aurors have already been suspended, and we've opened two dozen cases on various Ministry employees, ranging from janitors to department heads. There's some stuff on Dolohov too, but the others in my department don't realize it yet; they're all focused on covering their respective behinds, so to say."

"Well, that's great news, Harry! Obviously, not the last part, but..."

"It is, yeah. What I'm trying to say, is: with all of Yaxley and Dolohov's connections in the Ministry incapacitated…that means you don't have to hide anymore. There's no point in maintaining the fact of your disappearance. We've pretty much nailed all the people who were a danger to you. Only Dolohov's left, and he's alone. That means you can return to England, Hermione. Come back to us. Come home."

 _Come home._ The words reverberated through her mind, more potent than any spell, and her reaction to them was instantaneous, visceral. She started to cry.

Her tears were warm and fat. They welled up in the corners of her eyes, spilling over to run down her cheeks. She swiped at them angrily with the back of her hand, as if by dispelling them she could deny the very existence of her emotional breakdown, but they persisted, falling down one after another, until she gave in completely and sobbed freely.

"Hermione?" Harry asked, bewildered and even a little scared. She couldn't answer him. She sniffled instead, incapable of articulating the depth of her gratitude. Harry's concern had sparked a revolution in her soul, resonating deep. _Come home._ He was her home. Him and Ron and Ginny. Her true, loyal, her wonderful friends. And Draco. Draco was one of them too. This was what Harry's words – his deceptively simple, well-meaning words – caused. Crashing through every defence, fear and insecurity, they brought this knowledge to the well of her heart.

She was not alone in this world.

It was a poignant reminder of her connection to humanity, and it sent her down into an emotional spiral that resulted in several minutes of meaningless babble. Harry was completely unprepared, at first responding awkwardly to her unexpected litany of sobbing _thank-you's_ and _what-would-I-do-without-you._ Then, however, he must have understood – or maybe he didn't, but pretended to, at least – and he simply started to talk. He chatted about everything: the latest gossip, the past, things that meant everything to them and nothing to others… this stream of bumbling chatter was akin to how a parent might act to soothe a weeping child. It's applicable towards any age, for we all become a little more innocent during the times we cry.

Harry's tactic worked. Hermione quieted, the volume of her sobs decreasing gradually until only the even rhythm of breathing remained.

"Thank you, Harry," Hermione mumbled, a tad embarrassed.

"Anytime, 'Mione," he softly answered. "Anytime."

"So, I'll pick you up at… 5 o'clock local time?" he asked when Hermione was finished with her stumbling, sheepish explanations of what exactly sparked her emotional reaction.

"Yeah," she gulped. "Five sounds good."

"Alright, then. Love you, 'Mione."

"Love you too."

Hanging up, Hermione took a deep, shuddering breath, and then wiped her eyes, taking a moment to conceal the signs of her breakdown and contemplate her next actions. Harry's offer to _come home_ was critical on several levels. Yes, it meant she had a home to return to, but it also signified the end to one her life's chapters. For the past several years, her sole occupation had been hunting down Dolohov. She'd quit her job at the Ministry, secluded herself, nearly lost her mind. Then, when Draco had found her on that Muggle train, she had still been forced to remain concealed from the public eye. Any news of her discovery would have alerted Dolohov and Yaxley. Now, however, with the older Death Eater gone, and his corrupt contacts uncovered, she could… well, she could come back, just like Harry said.

Months of hell – years of it, really – were finally at their bittersweet end.

Once Dolohov was apprehended – and that was practically a formality by this point – she could return to lead a normal, boring life, just like millions of others did. People who didn't have to fight in wars or hunt down insane murderers. She'd take a break: walk down the magical cobblestones of Diagon Alley, spend some time perusing Flourish & Blotts, and then maybe stop for an ice cream at Fortescue's. Later, she'd return to the Ministry, implement her plan on changing the world, and there, right by her side, would be Draco.

Draco…

Hermione felt her soul soar at the mere thought of him. With one final glance around, she switched off the cell phone, and then apparated away, eager to share the news with her boyfriend.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Draco did not take it well.

"You want to return," he stated flatly, as if accusing her of some misdeed. His eyes glittered feverishly, pronouncing a scowling visage. Hermione had interrupted him at the very end of a spell – a glamour charm, by the sound of it, although why he'd be practicing beauty magic was beyond her. He was vain, but not _that_ vain.

That last thought withered away under his frosty glare.

"You want to leave and go back to Potter," he spat. "To Weasel and his ilk." His wand danced between in his fingers, making small stabbing motions.

Hermione didn't understand the reason behind this abruptly foul mood. "I do," she replied, indignance and frustration eating at her words. "And don't call Ron that. Why is this a problem anyway?"

Draco huffed, turning away to gaze out the window. His back was rigid, but the shoulders held a characteristic slump. Hermione observed the defensive, almost frightened posture, and an inkling of comprehension began to dawn. It wasn't that difficult to guess, actually, once she put her mind to it.

He was afraid. Here, on their mutual journey, it was just him and her, and their roles held equal value. But, if they were to return back to London, scores of new variables would be introduced into the fragile equation of their new relationship. Her friends, society, the Ministry…all of which hated him.

And, if that wasn't enough, what did Draco even have to return to? An empty manor with a pair of house-elves for company? He was a pariah, and this trip was the first meaningful human contact he had had in years.

Hermione took only a moment to reel all this information in and then quickly jumped in his direction, hugging the blond wizard from behind, pressing her body into his back.

"This won't end," she whispered, feeling him tremble slightly. "Yes, I want to go back, but I won't leave you."

"Are you so sure of that?" he choked out, after a second's pause. She felt him deflate, like a balloon letting out its air. Instead of hostility, his voice held regret. "When we're back, you'll be Hermione Granger, heroine and brightest witch of her age. What am I? A failed Death Eater? A despised character no one even wishes to associate with? You haven't even told your friends about us. You speak with Potter almost every day, yet somehow you both manage to sound like I don't exist."

"Stop this!" Hermione let go, turning him around to face her. "I'll tell Harry, Ron, Ginny and whoever wants to know. I'm not ashamed of you! There's no reason to be insecure–"

"I'm not inse–"

"Hogwash! Yes, you are! We've been together less than a week, well, romantically, in any way, and here you are, fretting over what my friends will think of you!"

Her bluntness brought on a blush to his skin, and he made to turn away again, but she held him still. "Draco," she said earnestly, "I've told you more about myself than I have to anyone else. I've shared things…you know that. With you, I feel safe, I feel good. You're mine, and if Harry and Ron don't accept that, then I'll just cram you down their throats until they do."

Draco snorted, his spirits lifting considerably. "I don't want to be crammed down anyone's throat," he said. "Especially Weasley's. Merlin, I still remember that hungry gob from school. It's nightmare-inducing." He shuddered theatrically.

Hermione, glad that their first crisis as a couple had been averted, ignored the comment about Ron and chose to give him a wicked grin instead.

"Anyone's throat?" she asked suggestively, and he smirked in response.

"Well, when you put it that way…" His hands rose to cup her from behind, kneading her flesh through the fabric of her pants. She felt his wand too – he hadn't let go of it. He pressed a kiss to her lips, and she parted them eagerly, feeling his tongue penetrate into the warm cavern of her mouth. A moan rose from the back of her throat, her own hands rising to brush his sides and pull him into her, their forms moulding together.

When he broke away, she was breathless. "Drop your wand already," she scolded. Draco frowned. "My wand?"

"Your wand, nitwit! You're still holding it!"

"Oh." The blond hesitated, befuddled, and when Hermione craned her neck to peer into his eyes, she thought she saw something dark flash within their depths.

"Draco?" she inquired, a sudden sting of worry piercing her chest. "Are you alright?"

A moment passed, and then he was back, shooting her a cocky grin. He tossed the wand away, and drawled: "Why? Is my little girl worried?"

Hermione _pfffed,_ rolling her eyes, and he used the momentary distraction to steal a kiss. Another one followed, and another after that, his movements quickly growing urgent, as if their time was limited and could come to an abrupt end. Only when she cried out in pain at a particularly painful nip, did he stop, apologizing profusely. There was something vulnerable about him at that moment, something almost broken that reached in to tug at her heartstrings with a bittersweet pull.

Hermione soothed his worries away and pulled him back into another kiss.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Harry picked the two of them up at exactly 5 o'clock. He tugged Hermione into a fierce hug; his reaction to Draco was, naturally, much cooler. It pained Hermione. She knew there was a long history of bad blood between the two men; nevertheless, she hoped that, one day, they'd work past it and manage to get along.

The first obstacle to that goal would be telling Harry and Ron about her new relationship. Despite her earlier bravado, she knew this wouldn't be a simple task. Her friends would come around in the long run; they valued and respected her enough to do that. However, the short term could be precarious. Ron worried her the most. His temper had a propensity for explosiveness, and, in the heat of the moment, he could say things that he'd later regret.

Discussing this issue would require a certain level of finesse.

The Portkey tugged them away to a designated Ministry location. Hermione stumbled at the end, felled by the confounding physics of teleportation. Travel by Portkey was efficient, but not graceful. Hermione leaned against Draco for support – Harry shot them a surprised glance – and then the group split up. The blond took out his wand and apparated to Hermione's home – they had agreed in advance that he'd await her return there. Hermione hooked hands to travel with Harry. He side-alonged her to Grimmauld Place, where a flurry of cheers and embraces followed from Ron and Ginny, causing her to melt with joy.

This was home, Hermione thought. Her home.

The group made its way to the kitchen. The previous dinginess of the Black house was long gone; all the rooms were now airy and had windows that, like sunflowers, always followed the sun, unless the residents required a bit of shade. Hermione, surrounded by her friends, sat down at a table laden down with delicious foods. They all praised Ginny, who blushed and admitted that it was mostly Molly's cooking.

The conversation went easy, all four of them falling into a familiar routine. Harry, Ron and Ginny wanted to know everything about Hermione's travels, and she shared freely, although every time Draco's name was mentioned she found herself carefully navigating around the touchy subject.

 _You're a Gryffindor,_ she scolded herself silently, _your house sigil is a lion! Act like it: just tell that that you're together with Draco now! That you slept with him. Ok, maybe not the last part..._

Meanwhile, Harry and Ron shared a bottle of Firewhiskey; Hermione opted for a glass of champagne to settle her nerves. Ginny abstained from anything alcoholic, choosing some sparkling water instead.

 _Okay, Hermione,_ the brunette steeled herself after finishing her drink, _time to do it. Just open your mouth and say the words._ The alcohol shot into her blood, providing just the right amount of liquid courage. Taking a deep breath and feeling confident, Hermione opened her mouth and...

"We have some news!" Ginny exclaimed giddily. Hermione's lips snapped shut.

"Mmm?" Ron was occupied with devouring the mountain of mashed potatoes he'd heaped onto his plate. Everyone paused to stare at him silently, until the sounds of his munching were the only ones left in the kitchen. Ron blushed, quickly swallowing the last mouthful.

"I'm listening, I'm listening," he huffed, somewhat abashed, but Hermione had already put the clues together and rose from her seat to run over to the redheaded girl. "Ginny! You're…"

Squealing, the two girls finished the sentence simultaneously. "...pregnant!

Ron choked, turning red.

"It's really your fault, 'Mione," Harry said. He was off to the side, looking happier than when they'd won the house cup. "Remember when you were in St. Mungo's? We were visiting you every day, which made people suspicious, and then Ginny got asked by that silly reporter about a potential pregnancy? There was no pregnancy, of course, but it was the perfect cover back then – I mean, we couldn't let anyone know you had returned – and it got us to thinking that we'd like–"

"A new addition to the family–" Ginny butted in.

"–and here we are." Harry finished, grinning sheepishly.

"I am so-so happy for both of you!" Hermione cried out, hugging them both. "And so is Ron! Ron? Ron!"

The redhead was still in seat, shocked. "Pregnant?! But, but… but _how?!_ " he finally managed to stammer.

Ginny got the most evil look. "Well," she said slowly, relishing the moment, "when a boy and a girl like each other very much–"

Realizing the depth of his error, Ron paled, but it was too late.

"–and then the boy sticks his–"

" _La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!"_

"–which I believe happened right at this… well, _on_ this table, possibly where you're sitting, in fact–"

" _Not! Interested!"_ Ron stuck a pair of fingers into his ears, cowering under his sister's advance. Ginny's grin grew, and this may have led to additional needless disclosures of certainly very private information, had not a red-faced Harry tugged his overzealous wife back.

"What Ginny meant to say," he mumbled after clearing his throat, "was that we wanted you two to be the godparents."

Hermione squealed again, and the issue of her and Draco became unimportant in the light of such news. She spent the next several hours with her friends, relishing in the happiness of the moment, until a guilty look out the window reminded her that it was time to go.

Draco was waiting.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

When she landed within the snow-capped boundaries of her wards, the sun was beginning to set. It burned ferociously, coloring the horizon into a wildfire of vicious red. Red…the color of Ares – god of War; god of blood.

Hermione shivered.

She trudged forward, up over the little cobblestone path that led to her front porch. The forest around her was barren, lifeless. Its trees stood naked, casting long shadows onto the cold, hard ground. Their hooded forms and looming, outstretched limbs brought back frightful memories of Azkaban's dementors leaning in for that final kiss of empty eternity. Hermione shuddered, feeling queasy, and tried to dispel the worrisome image. There was no cause for unease: she was home, safe. Dolohov would be captured soon. Then, in less than nine months, she'd be a godmother, cooing over the most wonderful bundle of joy. Oh, she would read Harry and Ginny's little baby all the most wondrous books – the same ones her own mother had read when she was but a toddler.

There was _The Little Prince,_ and _Robinson Crusoe_ , and that one with the green alligator and the furry, big-eared mammal – what was it called? Chebu… Chebura…

 _Hoot. Hoot._

Hermione glanced up, startled, and a saw a pair of topaz orbs glimmering ominously in the shadows above her porch. Snows. He flew down to give her a welcoming nip, but didn't stay, rising back to his perch to pace anxiously. _Hoot,_ he cried out again, the sound echoing over the empty land. "What's the matter, boy?" she asked him, but he just started back at her, unblinking. "Snows?" she tried once more. He didn't answer.

Her worry – irrational and unsubstantiated – grew. The witch's war-honed senses were screaming danger, and yet nothing stood out. _I'm going mad,_ Hermione thought, and opened her front door, letting Snows follow her through. Draco should be near.

No one greeted her, however. The house was quiet, just as she had left it before leaving with… well, he had been Malfoy to her, then. Hermione's tongue darted out, wetting her dry lips. One of her hands reached down to grasp her wand. "Draco?" she called out apprehensively.

A sound carried over from the kitchen, and she breathed a sigh of relief, releasing the grip on her weapon. He was here. She quickly unclasped her robes and hurried over.

Several spears of waning light filtered in through the curtains, catching on the tiny motes floating in air. Draco was sitting at the table, hunched over and covered in shadow, wand in hand. His arms moved rhythmically, sounds of a spell leaving his lips. She could see the effects of several other charms as well: a piece of parchment in the form of a raven flapped its wings, and the ships in her Turner reproductions now moved, dipping with the broiling sea.

He looked so homely here, among her things. Hermione paused for a moment, letting the sight sink in. She wouldn't mind if he stayed, she realized. Stayed for good.

"Draco?" she said again, this time softly. The noise obviously startled him: he flinched, wand freezing in mid-air, and pivoted. But then he smiled, and it was enough to make all her anxiousness disappear.

"Hermione," he said. "How was Potter's?"

She walked over, giving him a peck on the lips. "They're having a baby," she replied, feeling his arms tug around the small of her back.

"A baby?"

"Mhhm. They want me to be godmother."

Draco gasped. "Oh that poor child!" he exclaimed. "Ten minutes out of the womb, and you'll be teaching it to read."

"Oh, shut it."

"Mhmm, I can picture it already: that kid, quoting _Hogwarts: A History_ by age two. I pity him already." He clucked his tongue in mock disapproval, earning him a slap on the shoulder. "And she hits, too! I think Weaslette needs to reconsider her offer. You obviously lack the necessary responsibility and maturity required for such a station."

Hermione snorted, going pink and tugging her head into his shoulder. "You prat," she hummed, breathing in the masculine scent. "Sorry," he said, rubbing his hands along her back. "You'll be an excellent godmother, you know."

She stayed there a bit, encircled by the embrace of his arms, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. It was so nice, so wonderful to talk with him. "Thanks," she said, and then teased him: "And what have you been up to? Casting magic all day? You know you shouldn't do it too much."

Her tone had been light, but his reaction – disproportionate. It was like someone had turned a light switch off, and the gaiety of the moment fled, chased away by a sudden chill. His whole demeanor changed instantly, and she felt him stiffen under her arms.

"So what if I am?" he snarled, in a voice as frigid as December ice, and then stood, pushing her away, eyes cloaked in madness. "I can do all the magic I want!"

"I know, I didn't mean it like that–"

"And what exactly did you mean it like?"

Jumping back at the abrupt hostility, Hermione vainly cast about for an answer. She felt the thread of the conversation sliding away from her, leaving her powerless to prevent the upcoming exchange. Her mind was reeling, unable to accept this new reality.

"I don't know, I just wanted to say–"

"You want to take away my wand, leave me impotent, squib-like! And you'd like it, wouldn't you?" he hissed, advancing until she was forced to take a step back. "I bet it made you feel powerful, when you found out about me? A pureblood with no wand, unable to do magic? Was it all your dreams come true – putting me in my rightful place? Did your knickers get wet when you returned it in Paris? Admit it: you enjoyed watching me beg for it, kissing your feet in 'gratitude'?"

" _No!_ Draco, stop this!" Hermione cried out helplessly, but he didn't listen.

"Four years!" he spat bitterly. "Four fucking years, wandless, forced to work alongside that _filth!_ Do you know how much I hated all those muggles? How much I wished I could _Avada_ every single one of them?! See them trusted up like the pigs they are?!"

"Don't say that," Hermione pled numbly, trying to suppress the quiver of her voice. "You don't mean it."

"Oh, I don't?! Disgusting, the lot of them. Eager to wallow in their own shit! And you… you're not much better than them, are you… _mudblood?"_

Hermione froze. You could hear a pin drop, and, in that frazzled silence, she observed him falling back on his old mannerisms – the smirk and sneer that had, for years, chipped away at her self-esteem. The metamorphosis was slow, and she studied the contempt and disgust growing on the jagged lines of his cruel face with an almost clinical detachment. They went through several distinct phases, an iconography of their past relationship, until he was no longer the man she had grown to love, but the spoiled brat that taken a perverse pleasure in her perpetual torment.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" she whispered, horrified, but he heard.

"Matter with me?" His lips twisted into a caricature of a smile. "I'm simly glad I can be done pretending."

"Pretending?" she breathed out. He walked up slowly, until he was only inches from her face. "Pretending to like you," he answered gleefully, emphasizing every word. "Pretending I care about your troubles, your insecurities, your little drama… what was it? Oh, that's right: the rape. You should be glad, you know," he continued with the airs of someone discussing the weather, disregarding the way her soul had just shattered, "that one of us did it. That a pureblood was your first. It's almost an… honor, isn't it? Isn't it, Hermione?"

Her chest was tight, the sweater constricting her breathing. Somewhere far away, she could feel the acidic sting of betrayal ripping into her heart like a splinter. "Get… out…" she managed to squeeze out from the tightness in her throat. He just smirked in response. "Gladly," he spat. "I'm sick of your presence anyway. But, before I go, remember this: not you, not the Ministry, and not even Harry Potter himself will ever take my wand from me, got it?! I am a wizard, and if I desire to do magic every hour, then that is my right! My right, not yours! _Filth!_ "

He shoved her back brutally, a delighted expression crossing his face when her body hit the wall with a crunch. In a shocked daze, she saw him reaching for his wand, but she couldn't move. It was like she was a marionette trapped in her own body, and the strings had been cut. "Goodbye, _mudblood,_ " he sneered, pointing the wand at her face with the beginnings of spell on his tongue.

 _Hoot._

Snows. He flew in, screeching, claws raking across Draco's skin, drawing blood. The blond cried out, firing a hex at the small owl, but missing. Hermione slid down the wall, watching the fight with unseeing eyes. Snows banked sharply, diving down for a second attack, and then a third, and a fourth until his opponent beat a hasty retreat. Draco cursed one last time and ran out of the room, leaving Hermione lying on the floor, alone.

The sharp crack of apparition could be heard several seconds later, and then it was all silent.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

When Hermione came to, it was dark. She didn't how much time had passed; her body had shut down, leaving her in a fugue-like state, completely unaware of her surroundings. She felt deflated – a skin with no life inside. Trails of tears and snot ran down her face, and she wiped at them with the back of her hand.

She hurt. It wasn't even a physical pain – although there were bruises on her back – but an emotional one. In the course of two minutes, her whole world had been overturned. _He had been pretending._

Pretending. Playing a game, getting what he wanted. He didn't love her; he didn't even like her. She had always been filth to him, a mudblood he was forced to humor.

Sobs shuddered through her form. She crawled upwards, curling up into a small ball, hands around her knees. Just like she had sat in Paris… when she had confided in Draco… when he had comforted her with words so warm...

Had it all been a lie? Was she just a naive girl, falling for the first person who offered a listening ear?

Hermione could hear the clock ticking on the wall, and Snows as he ruffled up beside her, letting her pet his feathers. It had been so senseless. One moment, they were fine, hugging, and then…

And then it was all over. And all it took was a single second, an innocent question that went horribly wrong.

The tears dried out, eventually. A little sliver of moonlight illuminated the room. Hermione stood, wincing from the pain in her back and walked over to pour herself a glass of water to soothe her parched throat. She stepped on something along the way; it crumpled under her foot. Leaning down, Hermione picked up the piece of parchment Draco had used for one his spells. It had been a raven, flying around, but the magic had left with the wizard. Now, it was just a piece of paper.

A familiar piece of paper, Hermione noted, automatically unfurling it. It was her letter. Her old letter, the one she'd sent to herself during the battle with Dolohov.

 _Malfoy No Wand In._

The words mocked her in the moonlight, reminding of the man who had just broken her heart. What good were they anyway? Why did she even send this missive, what had she been trying to tell herself?

 _Great job, Hermione,_ the girl remarked, chucking it away as hard as she could. _You outsmarted yourself again. You're your own worst enemy._

The words were acid in her mouth, and she reached for a pitcher, filling it up from the tap. Her lips quivered as she recalled the hateful words that Malfoy had thrown at her; the vehemence and bitter anger in his voice; the ashen tone of his skin; the way he'd proclaimed that it was his right and not hers to work magic. It was like he'd been infected with anger, she thought, taking a calming sip of water, like he'd been…

The pitcher fell from her fingers, shattering on the floor into a million pieces.

She didn't care. She stood there, eyes wide, petrified under the light of the new moon. She'd figured it out.

Infected.

 _Malfoy. No Wand. Infected._

She'd never finished the last word.

And now it all made sense.

It came crashing together in a jumble of images: Draco, ecstatic and grateful when she'd returned his wand in Paris; the way he'd progressively started to use it more and more, until the wand almost never left his fingers; the times when he'd insisted on casting spells himself; the look in his eyes when she suggested he should lay back on the magic.

It wasn't him. Hermione was almost glad – endlessly guilty, but glad – because… _it hadn't been him._ He was infected. He always had been, ever since the war.

He was _The Key._

Voldemort had split up his virus into two parts: _The Other_ and _The Key._ The latter was supposed to unlock the former, so that, in the unlikely case of the dark wizard's demise, it could wreck havoc on the world. It was a brilliant plan. It had almost worked too...

Draco and Antonin had both been infected, the action probably covered up by memory charms. Antonin's curse had activated once Harry turned Voldemort into a pile of ash, but Draco… This was the one thing that the Dark Lord could not foresee: Draco's wand had been confiscated, leaving him incapable of active magic. And that's exactly what the curse fed on – magic! Monseigneur Lemmen had posited this way back in Paris. And Draco's magic was dormant, leaving the malignant spell in a drought. Four years it had withered with him, while the wizard had been stuck in the muggle world, unable to cast a single spell, unsuspecting of the time bomb within his mind...

Where it had slumbered peacefully, until...

Until she had returned his wand. She had willingly handed him the weapon of his own destruction. The second the wand was in his grasp, the moment he uttered his first spell… magic had coursed through his body, revitalizing, rejuvenating, and… and awakening the old curse. The evil begun to germinate, spreading through his system, demanding the use of more and more magic, feeding it in its fertile medium.

Feeding until… until it could take over.

Hermione gasped. This was the true cause of their altercation! It hadn't been him – she was sure of this – it was the virus, and if it was potent enough to suppress Draco's identity now, then it could do anything. It could find Dolohov, unlock _The Other._ And what would happen to Draco then? Would it kill him? Wipe his memory? Leave him lobotomized, a walking carcass?

Hermione whirled around, panicking. She needed to find him _now_. How much time had passed? An hour? Two? Was she too late? "Snows!" she called out, _accio'ing_ a quill and some parchment. The owl flew up to her instantly, waiting patiently as she scribbled down several words. "Take this to Harry," she whispered urgently. "As quick as you can, alright?" Her heart thundered beneath her ribs, slamming against the prison of bone. Time… she needed time… Oh, Gods, let him be alright. Snows gave her a reassuring _hoot_ and took off, disappearing into the night. Hermione was gone a second later. She had apparated to the boundary of Malfoy Manor.

The wrought iron gates, sensing her desperation, flung themselves open, and she bounded over the territory, cursing herself every step of the way. The house itself slowly grew, until Hermione, gasping, practically slammed into its front doors. "Draco!" she yelled out to the dark building, banging her fists on the ancient wood. "Linny?! Draco! Are you there? Please! Ple–"

The handle turned, and the doors noiselessly opened. Linny stood there, her tearful eyes glimmering in the moonlight. It took only a single look at the apologetic mein on the house-elf's countenance for Hermione to collapse down onto the ground and emit a mournful wail.

She didn't need to hear the words.

Hermione knew it already: she was too late, and Draco was gone.

* * *

 **Wow, this chapter took so long to write. I hope the sequence of events has become clear now, however. Also, I'd like to remark that, over the course of this fic, there were two reviewers that almost frightened me with their perceptiveness, when they guessed at Draco's role very early on.**

 **cnf and MaskedLee, you guys rock! (Lee, you figured out the Infected phrase - scary! great job!)**


	39. Memories From France

**The flashbacks are to Chapter 21:** _ **The Cloud Princess**_

* * *

Snows must have completed the journey to Grimmauld Place in record time, because Harry and Ron, out of their minds with worry, appeared only fifteen minutes later. Ron took one glance at Hermione's distraught state and clenched his fists, stomping past the witch into the dim foyer of Malfoy Manor. "He hurt you," he growled into the chilly air. "That tosser, where is he? Malfoy! Come on out, you piece o' hippogriff shit!"

"What?!" Hermione closed her eyes for a second, clearing her head. Now, of all times, she needed a sound mind. "No. Ron." Her voice rose, growing stronger. "Ron! It's not that. He didn't. He's the one who's…" Taking a deep breath, Hermione relayed everything she had discovered. Harry and Ron listened intently, their forms still under the silver light of a glaring moon. Hermione paced back and forth, gesticulating, puffs of breath following her in the nippy air.

"Wait," Ron interrupted halfway through, "what was he doing at your _house?_ "

"Not now, Ron." Harry said, having picked up on some suspicious omissions in Hermione's story. "Let's focus on the bigger picture for now. This sounds serious."

Hermione gave him a grateful nod and continued on with her condensed version of events. "And I apparated here as soon as I figured it out," she concluded, "but he was already gone. Linny – Dra…Malfoy's house-elf said that he'd come here for a bit, raving mad, bashing things, and then left, and she doesn't know where. So we have to find him. You can see how urgent this is, because if I'm correct in my theory, then he's being driven by the virus's needs, and that is…"

"To reunite itself," Harry finished grimly, "and become whole. So we have to locate either Malfoy or Antonin to prevent that from occurring. What about the potion you brewed at the Dolohovs? Won't it take us straight to them?"

Hermione shook her head sadly and said, "It's not ready yet. Our Portkey was scheduled to leave for Ural tomorrow, and that's when it'll be finished. But tomorrow might be too late! So how…how…"

An anguished silence fell over the trio as they pondered her words. "The Ministry… it didn't place any sort of tracking magic on Draco, did they?" Hermione finally grasped at an idea. "Or on his wand?"

"Nope," Ron answered ruefully. "Nothing of that sort. Hey…maybe his mum knows where he is?"

Harry turned to face him and scolded, "Not funny, Ron! You know Narcissa's been missing for years after she skipped her parole! There's a friggen warrant out for her arrest!"

Ron's blush was covered by the darkness, but it was there. "Skipped my mind," he mumbled. "Sorry. Then, maybe we should try–"

Neither of the two men noticed Hermione stumble and then whirl around.

" _Ron._ "

"Huh?"

" _Ronald Weasley."_

"What?! Blimey, Hermione, I said I was sorry, it was a stupid idea–"

"No, you oaf!" She ran up, threw her arms around his shoulders and kissed him full on the lips. "You're a genius!"

Ron stared back at her, shocked. "I am?" he asked breathlessly.

"Yes! His mum! I…how could I have forgotten?!"

"You know where she is…?"

"Yes! And not only that, but…" Hermione nibbled on her bottom lip. "Shut up!" she yelled suddenly. "Shut up, both you! I need to think!" Over the years, Harry and Ron had accumulated enough experience to realize when it was prudent to simply follow the witch's directions. Now was one of those times, and they obediently fell silent, tuning in to her frantic mumblings. "It was in Paris," she was saying to herself. "We were in the caverns…what did he say? There was _The Cloud Princess,_ and we were gazing up at her, and he told me–"

" _The Cloud Princess?"_

"It's a flying cruise ship," Ron explained in a hushed whisper to Harry. "Bloody expensive one, too. Mum once told me that my great-grand–"

Hermione wasn't listening to them. She was focused on retrieving an almost forgotten moment, a single memory that was crucial to bringing her love back. It had been regarding Draco's mother, and how the Malfoys had retained a method of contact in spite of all the Ministry regulations governing their sentences. It had been in Paris…

" _She can't return because of the threat of arrest,"_ he had stated, speaking of Narcissa, " _but if things ever got really tough, I could always run to her."_ She had inquired how and he had smiled mischievously, replying with a small gesture that revealed a silver chain with black onyx ring 'round his neck.

" _Portkey," he whispered conspiratorially. "My mother has one just like it. They're made of one stone, meaning that–"_

" _They're linked together," Hermione guessed in similarly hushed tones. "One takes you to the other."_

One takes you to the other! Hermione looked at her friends, her chest heaving. Draco had a Portkey! She'd seen it only once – he kept it hidden under a permanent charm – but it was there! And it led straight to its other half – the one with Narcissa! Which meant that Narcissa's half was, similarly, connected to Draco's! It was so simple! Now, all she had to do was remember where the witch's location. What was it Draco said? Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, recalling the moment, his words coalescing from the depths of her mind.

" _We got her out of the country. Greased some wheels, paid the right people. She travels sometimes, but usually stays in a small property we own on the French-Italian border_ … _and the Giardini Botanical Gardens are just a short stroll away…"_

"Giardini," she rasped. "Small property near the Giardini Botanical Gardens. On the French-Italian border. Harry, we need a Portkey there, and we need one _now!"_

"But it's the middle of the night!"

"This morning," Hermione growled, poking him in the shoulder, "you were boasting about how the Ministry would do anything for you! Well use some of your fucking fame and wake everyone the fuck up! I don't even give a damn if you have to _Imperio_ a dozen department heads, just get me that Portkey! You too, Ron!" she barked at the redhead. "Meet me back here when you have it!"

"Hermione, but all we have is a general location, what are we supposed to do when we get there: scour the countryside? Work on leads, question people, show her picture around? That could take days!"

"Don't worry about that. I'll find a way, you just get me the Portkey, alright? Now, go! Go!"

There was no arguing with her. Sharing a pointed look and with a quietly muttered, "She's mental, she is," the wizards took off towards the boundaries of the Manor's lands. Anxiously, Hermione watched them go, growing smaller in the distance, till with a flourish of their wands, they were gone.

Imperiously, she clapped her hands, calling out to Linny. The house-elf appeared instantly, bowing low, and Hermione strode past her, determination in every step.

"Come," she threw over her shoulder. "Let's see if we can discover a way to locate Narcissa. Perhaps some of the portraits can help. I always did want to interrogate a few bigoted Malfoy ancestors. Let's see how they like a muggleborn trampling all over their precious household. Keep up, now."

Running on her stumpy legs to meet the witch's brisk pace, Linny thought about that one portrait on the third floor that had always been particularly mean to any house-elf. She'd lead the good miss there, she decided, and with what could be classified as a smirk, turned towards the nearest staircase.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

 **Dolohov Estate, Ural Mountains**

Gingerly picking up the smouldering potion, Anastasia wrinkled her nose. It smelled awful, and the appearance wasn't much of an improvement either. Vomit, the witch decided. It was the color of vomit after a whole night of drinking. It was fitting, she supposed cynically, that the world's salvation would be held in such a repulsive concoction.

Ignoring the smell, Anastasia quickly bottled the liquid and hastily made her way outside. A blizzard was coming, and the wind was already strong. " _Drakosha!"_ she cried out, sending up a flare with her wand. The dragon saw.

Anastasia watched the beast descend. Her stomach was twisting with worry, the cause of her unease secured in her traveling bag. The potion. Babushka had centuries of brewing experience, and she never made any mistakes. She had told the Englishmen that the potion would be ready in two days, and that had been a lie. It had been ready in one.

It was pointless to ask for the reason of such deception. Babushka would never explain. She had simply summoned her granddaughter, informed her of the potion's preparedness, and then fixated the young girl with an unblinking stare. Babushka would teach, advise, but never push. Anastasia was an adult, and she had to make her own decisions.

She knew that if Babushka had prepared the potion in a day, then it was needed in a day. Right now, her friends required its magic, and, for some reason, Babushka had left that decision up to her. To bring it…or not.

In Anastasia's mind, this wasn't even a choice. She had abandoned Hermione once, but not again. Never again.

"V Angliu," she whispered into the dragon's ear when it had descended from the heavens. "Davai, rodnoi. Davai."

The dragon roared, spurred on by the witch's pleas, and beat its wings, carrying its rider to the misty isles that have come to generate so many legends of old.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

 **Malfoy Manor**

It took three hours and two threats of arrests for a Portkey to be garnered. If they weren't war heroes, such actions would have cost the young men their jobs, but Harry and Ron figured there wouldn't be any major repercussions. They made a quick stop at Grimmauld Place to grab a pair of brooms and then, Portkey in hand, apparated back to Malfoy Manor, where Hermione was already waiting for them.

"Is it ready?"

Harry nodded. "Just takes a keyphrase to activate it," he said, holding out a plastic fedora with the words "Construction Crew" on the front. Hermione couldn't help but snort: the Portkey had obviously been intended to be camouflaged as a construction hat, but a fedora, really? Wizarding Ministry officials still had no grip on muggle culture.

"Then let's go," Hermione said. "I've manage to wrangle something that will help us locate Narcissa there."

"How'd you manage that?"

"Now's not the time, Ron, but–" a smirk flitted across her lips "–I blackmailed some of the deceased Malfoy gentry."

"What does that me–"

"Not the time! Let's go! Harry!"

"'K. Just place your hands here… and… _Arda!"_

Linny watched the magical device transport the group away, her trembling hands serving as proof of the little creature's concern. Her line had served the Malfoy family dutifully for over six hundred years, and she took pride in that history. Now, the noble lineage was on the verge of its downfall, and Linny, eyes prickling, wished that Miss Hermione and her friends would find Master Draco.

Find him and bring him home.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

The Portkey placed Harry, Ron and Hermione in the small port town of Bordighera, twenty kilometers from the border to France. The air was much warmer here, and it smelled of salt and seaweed. A thin slice of moon, nestled high in its lofty perch, dreamed of the world below. Its image shimmered in the calm waters of the Mediterranean, a thousand pale bows that spread across the dark-blue stretch.

Hermione took a breath, trying to calm her hammering heart. A gnawing worry was scratching at her insides. Every second felt wasted, and Draco's image, helpless, alone, and broken, kept popping into her head. Was he hurt? Was he resisting Voldemort's magic? Had he found Dolohov yet? These questions had no answers, and tension swelled, rolling over the witch's body in stormy waves. She was here, and he was…he was…

He was gone. A picture from a dream – a pair of seagulls, divided by a storm – flitted into her mind. Hermione swore. She had known. Subconsciously, on some level, she had known, but had been too stupid or inattentive to pay the warnings any heed. And this is what her lack of action brought.

"Hermione?" Harry placed a hand on her shoulder. "You alright?" She gripped it, squeezing hard, sending him a silent thank you.

"Yeah," she replied after a moment, using the time to gather her wits. "Let's find him."

The mounted their broomsticks (Hermione seating herself behind Ron), and set off west, towards the border and the Giardini Gardens. By itself, this wasn't enough of marker to find Narcissa, but all Hermione required was reasonable proximity.

In her purse, gathered from a bureau in the Manor, was a hairbrush that had once belonged to the elder witch. Hermione had found it with assistance from some of the house's portraits, who, upon hearing of Draco's peril, became rather eager to assist despite the muggleborn's lowly heritage.

They still made some disparaging remarks though, and one even haughtily stated that the Malfoy line always found a way to persevere. "It already has, in fact," the portrait had smirked, torn between glee and disgust, but Hermione, the goal burning in her mind, brushed off the words. She'd acquired the hairbrush and then listened keenly to the description of an old scrying spell that had been used by the Malfoys several times to locate missing family members. The magic, unfortunately, was weak. It required a target's personal item and worked only in a radius of several kilometers. Thankfully, in this case, that should be enough.

The trio flew along the Italian coast, following the SS1. A few cars whizzed by below them, and, far off at sea, Hermione detected a line of flickering lights. A cruise ship, perhaps, or some merchant vessel going about its way. She looked away, sniffed, and then clenched her arms tighter around Ron's waist, willing him to go faster. Every second counted.

The Giardini Gardens came into view when the moon was starting to lean down on the horizon. In several hours, it would leave the night sky, letting its brother shine in all his daytime glory. Hermione retrieved the hairbrush and, carefully, gripping the broomstick with her thighs, reached for her wand to cast the scrying spell.

Nothing.

"Go north," she said. "I'll try there."

After north, they turned west and then north again, flying in circles until Hermione began to grow desperate. Maybe her memory had been faulty. Maybe Narcissa had moved. Maybe the spell didn't work or Draco had lied to her or…

A thousand possibilities trampled through her mind, and she resolutely ignored each and every one, casting the spell again and again until finally, when all hope seemed lost, the hairbrush reacted and started to vibrate.

"Here!" she yelled, feeling the handle pull south. "South! C'mon, Ron! Faster! We're close!"

Ron angled their broomstick down, speeding up. Hermione's stomach dropped, but instead of terror, she felt elation and profound relief. Narcissa was nearby! The Portkey to Draco was close! Hermione silently sent up a prayer of thanks; her state, at that moment, was akin to that of a drowning sailor who had suddenly been thrown upon the shore.

The air whistled in her ears, and Harry's form was right at her shoulder, the two broomsticks flying side by side and then banking up, as they wound over a hill and there, in the waxing moon's light, surrounded by lush bushes and orange trees, stood a small house.

Hermione sprang off the broom before it came to a complete stop and rushed up to the entrance. The magic in the area was light; the house lacked even the most basic warding spells. She pounded on the door and yelled, "Mrs. Malfoy, wake up! Please! It's Draco! It's about Draco! He's in trouble–"

A small light came on in the house, and a scuffle of footsteps carried over hardwood floors. Harry and Ron jogged up beside her, wands at the ready. "Put them away!" Hermione hissed. "Last thing we need is to frighten her!" Abashed, the boys complied.

"Mrs. Malfoy! Narcissa!" Hermione infused her voice with urgency, begging: "Your son, Draco, he's in terrible danger. Please, I need to speak with you–"

The door thrust open, and Narcissa Malfoy, dressed in a knee-length sleeping gown, stared out over the tip of a lit wand. Her face paled the instant she saw Harry and Ron.

"Aurors!" she gasped. "Mr. Potter! What an unworthy trick, using my son. I will not go to Azkaban!" Her eyes narrowed in fury.

Hermione used the moment to reach out and push both her friends away. "It's not a trick," she said quickly.

"Ms…Granger?" Narcissa still had her wand outstretched, but her pupils darted back and forth between her sudden visitors. "Are you an Auror too, now?"

"No. I swear it. Everything I said – everything you heard – it's true. Draco is in terrible danger right now."

The words and pleading tone had a tangible effect on the older woman, but Narcissa stood her ground.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry interjected. "I remember what you did in that forest. Your lie. I'm not here to arrest you, I promise. If you're still unconvinced, think about this: if I was, then I wouldn't barge up to your front door and knock. It'd be a raid. I'm here to help your son."

"You?" Narcissa asked, suspicious. "You want to help Draco? After everything's he's done?"

"Let's not rehash the war or our years at school. There's no time in it. Any moment Mal–your son might die, and we need your help to stop it."

"If my son is in danger, as you say, then you should be out there looking for him, not at my doorstep! What can I do?"

"The Portkey," Hermione said softly. "You have a Portkey that will take you to Draco. He told me about it. You're probably thinking of using it right now, but you can't help him. Please, Mrs. Malfoy. Give it to us."

"He… he told you?" Narcissa's defences were falling one by one. Her wand dipped. "Why should I believe you? Why should I believe anything you say?"

"Because I love your son. I'd do anything to protect him, just like you."

Hermione heard a choking sound from behind her, but ignored it, looking straight into Narcissa's pale-blue eyes, begging her to believe. She poured every ounce of affection she held for Draco into her gaze. Narcissa considered it only for a moment and then nodded, raising her hand to her neck with an agitated expression.

"He's in danger?" she whispered, making a small motion with her fingers. A necklace shimmered into existence, and she pulled at the metal links until a black ring with an emerald "M" – identical to Draco's – came into view. "How much danger?"

"I want to say he'll be alright," Hermione replied, biting back tears, "but I don't know. He might…he might already…"

Narcissa tore the ring off its chain and pressed it into Hermione's hands. "Is there anything else I can do? Anything at all? Where is he, what do you know?" The questions were pouring out now, but Hermione knew there was no time for discussion. She pressed the Portkey close to her chest.

"We'll bring him back," she promised.

"'We'll'?" Confusion crossed Narcissa's features. "But, Ms. Granger…the portkey can take only one!"

Hermione froze. This was not something she – or any of them – had ever considered. Only one person could go. Only one could be transported to Draco, who, possibly, was already in Antonin Dolohov's clutches.

And, as she distantly heard Harry's demand to hand over the magical device, she knew it had to be her. Not Harry or Ron, but her. This was just as clear as the fact that neither Harry nor Ron would ever willingly permit such an action. She came to a decision in less than a second.

Whirling around, Hermione yelled out a stunning spell, sensing a flare of guilt at Harry's betrayed expression just before he crashed to the ground. She stifled the traitorous feelings, steeling her voice.

"What the bloody hell, Hermione?!" Ron sounded furious, observing her with disbelieving eyes. She levied her wand against his chest. "Don't move, Ron," she said, watching emotions flicker over his face. He realized what she was about to do, but she cut him off before he could utter his first plea. "You can't change my mind. I'm sorry. Odds are Draco's still in England, so take Harry and go back to Grimmauld Place. Wait there for my Patronus."

"Hermione, wait, please don't–"

She didn't listen. She squeezed the Portkey under her fingers, sensing the ring heat up. Its magic expanded, sending shivers down her spine, and then tugged her sharply away.

Ron Weasley was left standing, staring at the empty spot where Hermione had just been, and cursing the entire world.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Hermione blinked, observing the large room she had been transported to. It had been grand, once. Large, floor-to-ceiling windows were set in one of the walls, the glass coated in kisses of dust. Overgrown gardens lay just beyond, the view partially obstructed by tattered tapestries tapering down. Random items littered the floor, lying next to broken frames and pieces of furniture in various states of rot. A figure of a monkey, dressed in Persian robes, caught her eye. It grinned ghoulishly, holding a pair of cymbals in its hands as if it were about to snap them together. Deep gouges scoured the walls – signs of an old battle. A chandelier, miraculously untouched and lavish, hung suspended from the ceiling. A pair of doors stood shut on the far side of the room.

Everything here screamed of past opulence...

And magic.

The room was doused in it. It prickled along Hermione's skin, raw and painful, like a set of skinning knives. She sensed its dark nature and eager malevolence. This magic was made to harm. The way it coiled around these premises made her think of a lair, the nesting place of some rabid animal. It scared her.

She turned her head, soaking in all the details. A couch, tilted on its side, legs broken. Dark stains on the floor – blood, probably. A liquor cabinet that had crashed down, bottles all out and shattered. A single red balloon, tied to the arms of an armchair, floating high.

And there, in the chair…

Draco!

Hermione clamped her mouth shut, stifling a gasp. She could see the back of his head, his blond hair hanging limp. She wanted nothing more than to rush up and check his condition, but didn't, even though he hadn't moved an inch since her sudden appearance. He just sat, motionless, like a mannequin. It took every fibre of her being to stand still and suppress the impulse to save him _now._

Before anything else, she needed to notify Harry and Ron. Sending her Patronus was the number one priority.

The wand was in her hand already. She pointed it out and then flicked it, focusing on the happiest memory she could conjure – her Hogwarts letter. The moment when her world had expanded into untouched horizons.

" _Expecto Patronum!"_

A white mist drained from the tip of her wand, hazy and unclear. With a growing dread, Hermione saw it disappear. Another memory, then. The end of the war, the relief that it was all over.

" _Expecto Patronum!"_ Again, the charm fizzled out. _Happier,_ Hermione thought. _Happier!_

A third incantation failed to work, then a forth. Tears in her eyes, Hermione concentrated as hard as she could, recalling the moment that had brought her the most pure, unadulterated delight. And then, it clicked.

Her and Draco. Paris. The Eiffel Tower. Their first kiss.

Hermione knew it would work. Her wand rose again, this time with all the confidence in the world. " _Expecto… Patronum!"_ A brilliant white light burst forth, growing, growing, growing, until…

Her otter was gone. A giant wolf – reminiscent of the one she had rode on – turned to sniff at her, baring its fangs in a toothy smile. Her Patronus had changed. Well, it could happen, she thought, leaning down to trace her fingers over the ephemeral being. A girl, she noted.

"Run," she whispered. "Go to Grimmauld Place and bring Harry and Ron here. As quick as you can, please." Her Patronus nodded and then glanced around a the room, a growl deep in its throat. Its fur stood on edge. "Go!" Hermione pled. "Go!"

The wolf leapt up into the air, setting off at a run. It sprinted, quick as lightning, towards its destination. It wasn't quick enough.

The magic in the room flared, and dark chains, forged from shadow, shot out of the corners. Hermione's wolf banked left, dodging one, then right, avoiding another, but then a whole net dropped from above, imprisoning the Patronus. The wolf howled, tearing at the cold metal, its claws shredding the dark, but more and more chains piled on until the light grew dim and with a pitiful yelp became extinguished.

It all took only three beats of the heart. Hermione stood stunned at the implications. The Patronus had been the only way of contacting her friends. Without it, Harry and Ron wouldn't be able to find her. Without it, she was alone, and–

Her thoughts were cut off by a sound from the other side of the room. The doors there burst open, a menacing figure looming in the darkness beyond. She could hear its ragged breaths, feel its hatred, rolling off in heated waves. It took a step forward, into the moonlight, revealing the twisted features of Antonin Dolohov.

" _MUDBLOOOOOD!"_ he bellowed and then started to laugh, although the guttural sounds that exited his throat were so inhuman that Hermione could barely recognize them. He wheezed and chortled, phlegm flying forth, madness tinting the edges of his eyes.

And then, he stopped. It was so abrupt that Hermione's ears began to ring from the sudden lack of noise. Dolohov swaggered in, reaching into a set of stained robes and snapping out his wand. He cocked his head to the side as he continued his approach, studying her like an insect under a microscope.

"Have you come here to die?" he asked with a demented grin.

Hermione didn't respond. She turned her own wand, and, with a snarl on her lips, spat the first curse. She'd beaten Dolohov once; she could do it again.

Dolohov sidestepped the spell easily. He was different now, stronger, faster. _The Other,_ in his system, was almost at its peak of maturity, ready to bond with _The Key._

The witch stood no chance, really; she just didn't realize it yet.

The battle was on.


	40. A Demon From The Past

Hermione's movements were quick, efficient. Three spells burst from the tip of her wand in a rapid succession: two stunners and a vicious slicing hex. They sped towards Dolohov, lighting the room with their deadly light, and he dodged every single one. He did so in a deceptively lazy manner; like a predator, he prowled in, stepping lightly on the toes of his feet.

Hermione changed tactics immediately. Duels were straining, and many were decided by a wizard's stamina. Only fools burned themselves out in the first few minutes, and fools made for poor duelers.

Therefore, the witch turned, matching his movements, making sure to maintain her distance and keep her body between the dark wizard and Draco, who had yet to show signs of life.

 _If_ he was still alive, that is.

Dolohov must have realized her intentions. "Don't bother protectin' 'im," his drawl echoed from across the room. "I won't touch the boy. Not yet, anyway." He chuckled. "Still got an hour left, that one. After that… Well, I'm sure you've figured it out. Always were bright, even for a mudblood."

Hermione pursed her lips, glancing back at Draco instead of responding. A dark idea scuttled through her mind. Draco was infected, but the spell had yet to reach its final form. It hadn't bonded with _The Other_ in Dolohov. Therefore, Dolohov needed Draco alive…

"Can't do it, can you?" The Death Eater hissed, as if he was able to sniff out the direction her thoughts had turned to. "And yet it has crossed your mind. One _Avada_ , and you could delay the inevitable. Kill the boy, and set the spell back! But you're weak. Always were. Scum! _Decimata!"_

His voice pitched, and Hermione almost missed the first spell. She ducked at the last moment, hearing it whizz over her head, singeing her hair. Two more were flying towards her.

" _Wingardium Leviosa!"_ The first year incantation served her well: the couch she levitated in front of herself was blasted apart into a hundred pieces, but Hermione remained unharmed. She used the moment to change her position, flanking Dolohov on the right and yelling " _Bombarda!",_ which only harmlessly splashed across a half-domed shield.

" _Reducto!"_ the wizard snarled in return, and Hermione dove to the ground, avoiding the destructive spell. Time seemed to speed up from that moment. Bolts of deadly lightning flashed about the room, as Hermione wove around the debris, ducking and dodging Dolohov's magic. Her own spells were rarer; the wizard was outperforming her at least two-to-one. Ragged breaths tore through her throat; her lungs burned with the need for oxygen. She fired off a blood-boiling hex, turned right, and felt the growing heat of an incoming attack. Her foot snagged on something – the blasted monkey – and she stumbled, knowing only a second remained before her insides would be turned to mush.

" _Protego!"_ Hermione screamed at the last second. A shield shimmered into existence. Hermione poured her magic into the defensive charm, braced for impact, and…

Dolohov's spell hit her shield with the force of a sledgehammer. Hermione's eyes popped, an unwilling cry escaping her lips. Never – not even during the war – had she faced such insurmountable magic. Her knees buckled under the strain of sustaining her barrier; sweat streamed down her temples. Just as her hand began to shake and darkness creep into the edges of her vision, the pressure lessened and she was able to drop the shield with a sharp gasp.

Hermione panted, scanning the room, but no more spells were incoming.

"Persistent, aren't you?" she heard. Dolohov had moved over to the windows, and the moonlight framed his face into a landscape of oily blackness. Hermione edged away, using the the time to catch her breath. It appeared that Dolohov was arrogant enough not to capitalize on her moment of weakness. Instead, he stood casually, twirling his wand and displaying no signs of fatigue.

Hermione's state was worse. Strands of hair, slick with sweat, clung to her skin. She breathed deeply, feeling an ache in her muscles. A bruise was forming just under her knee – the result of a desperate dodge. She could not take another direct hit like that. In brute magical strength, Dolohov's current power could have rivaled Dumbledore's, she suspected.

She saw the Death Eater smirk. He looked content, like a cat that'd caught a mouse and was amusing itself with the little creature's struggles. "Always have to fight," he continued. "That's what caused all of this, you know. The dead muggles, the curse, all the people I've tortured and killed – how does it feel to know that it is all your fault?"

"Yeah," Hermione retorted, willing to keep the Death Eater talking, "blame the mudbloods, haven't heard that before."

"The mudbloods?" Dolohov looked at her strangely. "I'm not blaming your filthy species. The fault lies squarely on _your_ shoulders, Ms. Granger. You, and only you, are the cause for the Dark Lord's magic within me."

"Delusions always have been a staple of your group's consciousness."

"Delusions? Why would you think–" Dolohov began with confusion, and then his face lit up. "You don't know! You never figured it out!"

Hermione didn't pay his words much heed. Fanatics would always find ways to justify their actions. Instead, she fingered her wand, mapping out the room to find anything she could use to her advantage. There was a sturdy cabinet nearby, lying on its side. Dolohov seemed entirely unconcerned, laughing as if he'd just been party to a great joke.

"To not know," he wheezed, "your own past. Oh, this is great. Oh, mudblood. Brightest witch of her age – dumb as a brick. Don't worry, though: I'll explain everything…right before I gut you like a fish! _Crucio!"_

Hermione caught the shift in his stance and dove down just in time. The unforgivable flew over her shoulder as she scrambled back, avoiding several more. " _Stupefy!"_ she yelled, Bellatrix's old wand thrumming in her hand, eager for blood. Dolohov batted the stunner away, but Hermione was already on her feet, running towards the cover of the toppled cabinet. "Oh no, you don't!" she heard, and then recognized the high-pitched whine of an incoming spell. She dove to the ground, registering the cabinet being blasted apart into fragments. They battered the walls, shattering one of the windows to let in a furious winter wind.

Hermione rolled over to her back, wincing as she felt a sharp sting in her shoulder, where several long splinters had imbedded themselves. The clothes around them quickly grew dark, soaking in blood. Ignoring the pain, she raised her wand and lashed out with a spear of fire. Snarling, Dolohov summoned a gust of air to blow it away, and missed the second one – right behind the first. It hit him straight in the chest, tearing the wizard off his feet and smacking him against the wall. Dolohov howled furiously, dousing the flames and conjuring a black mist that concealed him from Hermione's eyes.

The girl, wand trained on the spot where Dolohov had just been, carefully rose. She checked the wound in her shoulder, mouthing a quick coagulating spell that stemmed the blood flow. The mist was growing, meanwhile. Its thorny tendrils reached out, ensnaring more and more of the room, covering it in darkness.

"You'll pay for that, you cunt," echoed from within its depths. "Have you figured it out yet? Who I am to you? Have you, mudblood?!" The voice had taken on a harsh, industrial sound that grated the eardrums. She ignored it, whispering the words of an obscure incantation; one she'd discovered in old, forgotten tome which held more dust than parchment.

" _Fidelis."_ Hermione exhaled. " _Fortis."_ She closed her eyes, covering them with her other hand. " _SOLARIS!"_

A miniature sun bloomed above the two combatants. Dolohov shrieked, his magic melting away under the blinding light. Hermione could see it even through her eyelids and hand. She stumbled backwards, pointedly aware that her own vision was impacted. Dolohov was shouting out a counterspell, and she sent several hexes in the direction of his voice, forcing him to defend against her attacks. Nevertheless, he counterspell took effect, and the sun blinked out.

Hermione opened her eyes, blinking rapidly as her pupils adjusted to the gloom. Dolohov's mist had been completely burned out, and the wizard stood thirty feet away, the front of his robes in tatters. Several drops of his blood fell to the floor.

"Filth," he dropped and then spat out a curse.

Hermione managed to get away, but Dolohov didn't relent, chasing the witch's nimble form with spell after spell. Vividly recalling how much her single _Protego_ had cost her, Hermione didn't dare block them straight on. Instead, she focused on evasion and conjurations, deftly summoning and transfiguring objects to aid in her defence. Bolts of lighting were countered with makeshift lightning rods; freezing charms repelled by heat. She parried a cutting hex and sent back several _confringos_ by conjuring a mirror. The Death Eater just grunted and pressed the assault.

Hermione continued to defend, acutely aware of the heaviness growing in her limbs. Dolohov was like a machine, bombarding her with a steady stream of magic. The few offensive spells she cast were effortlessly deflected.

" _Sectumsempra!"_ she gasped out at an opportune interval. The spell jetted out of her wand in a flash and collided with one of Dolohov's hexes in the middle of the room. The two spells _zinged_ and blasted off in different directions: Hermione's went down, ripping through the floor to the room below, while Dolohov's spell flew upwards and hit the chandelier.

The ornamental light fixture exploded. A halo of glass ballooned outwards from its form, raining down with deadly shards. For a brief moment, it obscured the chandelier itself, which had been torn off its cord and was now barreling towards the ground...

...Right at Draco. Hermione gasped.

In that second, both Death Eater and Phoenix member forgot their quarrel and became unified in their desire to save the blond. They lashed out with magic, aiming to alter the chandelier's trajectory. They were almost successful.

Simultaneously, their spells struck the chandelier's arms, sending it into a tumbling spin, which made most of its mass miss the paralyzed Slytherin. It knicked him right at the edge, however, and Draco's body crumpled to the floor. Hermione, observing a pool of red beginning to form under his fallen form, cried out.

" _You bitch!"_ Dolohov raged. " _You filthy_ –"

The brunette swiveled back to face her opponent. Her fingers were trembling, face caked with sweat, and blood had crusted over the skin of her shoulder. Every movement caused pain to radiate from that spot. Hermione briefly closed her eyes and came to a rapid decision.

She wasn't winning this fight. Not like this. If she continued her tactic of avoidance – running and dodging and firing off a few paltry spells – Dolohov, inevitably, would whittle her down. He looked angry and deadly, but not tired. Once she'd exhausted herself completely, he'd penetrate her defences, and she would die. It was as simple as that.

So Hermione reached down to the very heart of her magic, summoning all of her power as a witch and calling out to the one element that held her affections above all others. Fire.

Most Gryffindors hold an affinity for flame. It is their element – brash and bold and often leaping forward inconsiderate of the consequences. Gryffindors will burn themselves up, die fighting, but never flee out of the lack for courage. Fire serves them well, just like other elements for the other houses. Hufflepuffs have come to be satisfied with the stability of earth, Ravenclaws seek the aloofness of air, and Slytherin personalities strive to match the shifting fluidity of water. But fire… fire is the Gryffindor domain, and Hermione had felt its tethered connection forged years ago, when she, but a first year witch, had rescued her friends from the clutches of a damp and wicked plant with just a handful of bluebell flames.

She called to the fire, using up all of her magic for one final, deadly attack.

The fire responded.

It took the image of three monstrous hydra heads that burst from the end of her wand. Dolohov reared back, his weapon a flurry of movement. The fire ignored his struggles; surging forth, it surrounded the dark wizard in a raging inferno and struck. Dolohov screamed.

Hermione had heard many sounds during the war, but this one she would retain forever. Notes of agony were accompanied by the sizzle of burning flesh. The room began to smell of cooking meat; Hermione gagged. Her hand dropped, her magic spent. She stood, listening to her enemy's dying shrieks.

She couldn't see him anymore in that blazing vortex, just the flames, burning with a purifying light. A fitting end for Voldemort's evil creation. Hermione took a shuddering breath, glanced down, and missed the change in the scene.

Like some demon from the pits of hell, Dolohov charged out of the flames. He roared, sprinting fast as a bull, and Hermione, in her surprised and exhausted state, was too slow to react. Futily, she began to raise her wand, and the Death Eater rammed into her. The two bodies crashed to the floor, Dolohov using his weight to pin the witch down. He looked terrible. His skin, charred black, hissed from heat. Patches of it were peeling off, revealing a pinking, slimy mess underneath " _You bitch!"_ he snarled, foaming at the mouth. His bloodshot eyes raved with madness.

Hermione thrashed on her ground, trying to dislodge him. The wand was still in her grip, but Dolohov grabbed her hand and started to twist. Hermione cried out, bucking, kicking, clawing at his eyes. He didn't stop, continuing his action until the bones in her wrist snapped.

Hermione screamed and tried to bite him. The next thing she felt was a flare of pain as he backhanded her across the face, splitting her lip. " _Filth!_ " he yelled, punctuating his words with blows that rained down one by one. " _Stupid,_ _moronic, mudblood cunt!"_

The brunette, blood covering her face, sobbed. Dolohov growled, quickly rising to kick her in the ribs. Something crunched, pain lancing through the girl's chest. Dolohov delivered several more blows and then smashed his foot down on her broken wrist.

Hermione passed out.

It must have been only a few seconds, however, because her next moment of awareness consisted of a searing pain in her scalp. Dolohov had grabbed her by the hair and was dragging her across the floor. Hermione whimpered, blinking away the tears that had formed. Half her body felt numb, and it was hard to breathe. She stared up at the cobwebs crowning the ceiling, trying to spit out the blood in her mouth.

"I couldn't let you die," her enemy was muttering. "Oh no, not yet, not like that. Not until you see…" he broke off, dropping the girl like she was dead weight. A flash of white, near the edges of her vision, caught her attention. Turning her head, she saw Draco, lying by her side. The fallen chandelier had struck his temple, and the wound pulsed with blood.

"Are you satisfied?" the dark wizard above snarled, his feet crunching on fallen glass. "At everything you've done?! Look at him! _Look at him!_ He's dying, and it's all thanks to you."

"Not me," she whimpered in response. "I didn't…Draco..." Her left hand inched to side, begging his touch.

"You didn't?" Dolohov leaned down, spitting at her face. "Do you still not understand? All this story…this virus…this infection inside of me and him – it all began with you!"

Hermione closed her eyes, praying for Draco to wake, for someone, anyone to come and save them. "The Department of…Mysteries?" she choked out, trying to play for time as a heavy dullness began to seep into her joints. That was the last time she'd had any sort of meaningful encounter with the dark wizard during the war, wasn't it? When he'd cursed her in fifth year?

"The Ministry?" Dolohov tutted. "I'm not talking about the Ministry. I'm talking about our _other_ encounter. Surely, you haven't forgotten? It began in that store…can you recall? That small muggle store with its stacks of produce and pyramids of canned peaches. Do you still like peaches, little girl?"

Hermione froze.

 _No. It couldn't be. Not him._

"The Dark Lord gave me a mission, you see," Dolohov continued, pleased with the horror his words evoked. "To catch this friend of Harry Potter's. She was supposed to be quite brilliant, or so they said; a real asset to the cause. Well, I found this girl, brought her here, in fact." Dolohov waved grandly at the room. "Well, not _here_ , you don't take trash into the house, after all. No, I apparated her to one of our cellars, an old one, unused, moldy from time…do you remember?"

A breath hitched in Hermione's throat. Her wide eyes traveled down Dolohov's burned form, coming to rest on the back of his right hand. And there, underneath the recent damage, was the scar. The same scar she remembered from so long ago – a crescent moon. That scar which was the only distinguishing feature she had retained of _that_ man.

The man from the cellar. The one with the silver mask.

Antonin Dolohov. "You," she whispered. "It was you."

Her lips twisted at the unbearable cruelty, an anguished wail soaring to the rafters. It was not fair. He couldn't win! He _shouldn't_ be able to stand there and gloat, not after all the evil he'd done! _NO!_

Dolohov laughed. "We had our fun, didn't we? You were dry at first, but I think you started to like it by the end. You weren't a girl then – not anymore…just a wet cunt. Could have been the blood, though. And then… _AND THEN YOU RAN AWAY!"_

His voice rose to a roar, hateful and enraged. He leaned in close again, his face only inches away from Hermione's. "You ran away, and the Dark Lord punished me, infected me with this curse! _IT WAS ALL BECAUSE OF YOU, MUDBLOOD!_ All my trials, everything I've endured! But now…now you're not getting away." His hand reached into the burned shreds of his robes and pulled out a jagged knife. "I promised I'd gut you, didn't I?" He taunted, his eyes never once leaving hers, "and I'll hold true to my word. Goodbye, mudblood."

Hermione, broken and beaten, stared out at the pointed edge of the knife. She'd failed them all. Harry, Ron, Ginny…and all the people that would soon die. But, most of all, she'd failed…

"Draco," the girl exhaled in one final breath…and then the knife came crashing down.

* * *

 **Uh-oh. Good time for a pause, I think =Ъ**

 **Also, I have been blown away at the responses to the last few chapters. Wow! You guys are amazing, and I love hearing your thoughts!**

 **A special shout out to TinySlippers who guessed at Dolohov's role in the story!**


	41. Even If It's The Last Thing I Do

**The events in this chapter run concurrently to the previous one. It's all happening at the same time.**

* * *

The world was a murky thing, full of sinister voices and shadows that made him doubt his own eyes. He could see images flash before him, fragments of his own memory, but they were twisted here, changed, with little lies that made it impossible to discern fact from fiction. One scene drifted up: him, on top of the Astronomy tower, scared shitless and fully aware of the consequences of inaction, but he couldn't do it, he couldn't, and Snape had to step up and–

And the scene shifted, and now the fear was gone and the wand outstretched daintily in his fingers as the murderous spell fell from his lips, causing the Headmaster to tumble down and all he could do was laugh and laugh and–

Another moment: The Manor, the bodies of three prisoners laid before him. "It's them," he sneered to his aunt, eager for her and her master's approval. "The ginger, the mudblood, and Potter. We've got you now," he added triumphantly, letting his eyes linger on Granger's gaunt features before turning around and asking for several hours alone with the girl, smirking as Potter and Weasley started yelling – and then quickly begging – to take them instead...

 _No. That's not true. That didn't happen._

But the voices just cackled in response, continuing to circle around him like he was the heart of some demented merry-go-round. They whispered in his ear, urging him to let go, calling his resistance futile, stupid – all of his herculean efforts merely delayed the inevitable. There was no coming back from this.

He could feel it, too: a gradual slipping of the mind, parts of him going dark as if someone was turning off lights in a house. Everything that happened around him did so in a haze; dimly, he remembered the events of the past week, which culminated in his argument with Hermione. Oh, Hermione, he'd hurt her so, he knew, except it hadn't been him, he'd already been locked away in this corner of his consciousness, a prisoner within his own flesh, unable to halt the unfolding horror.

Now, faintly, he could hear her. He knew she was fighting, but the sounds of the battle that reached his ears were distant, as if they had to travel through a thick layer of wax first. They were also hard to focus on, as the voices kept whispering, taunting, and sending up deceiving memories aimed at breaking his will. He hadn't capitulated, though. The virus – he knew what it was by now, he had figured it out – might control his body, but not his mind. Not yet. Not while he remained alive.

It was getting harder to resist, however. Only the fact that Hermione was close and fighting for him kept Draco going. Her actions gave him the one thing which people hang onto in even the most desperate situations – hope. It was but the tiniest of embers, burning deep in his soul, bolstering his defences...but, of course, it wasn't enough. The voices were too strong and, slowly, inevitably, like a rolling tide that sweeps towards a sandcastle to wash out its walls, they were breaching his barriers.

They were right, those voices, those last remainders of Voldemort's evil magic: it was only a matter of time.

Still, he tried to hold on, for his sake and Hermione's. Maybe she'd find a way. She was brilliant, after all. Brightest witch of her age, some said.

Her battle with Dolohov paralleled his own struggles. A small part of him registered the spells she was firing off, the curses she wove. " _Sectumsempra!"_ she gasped out at one moment, and he latched onto the memory that word brought, a memory he didn't like but one that was real, something tangible he could grasp, which might give him just a few more seconds to–

A great pain blossomed in his temple then, cutting off his efforts, and he felt a moment of vertigo, like he was falling from a great height, which rapidly came to a halt alongside a great, shattering crash. The voices rose in volume, screeching, howling; did he detect notes of _panic?_ No, not panic, but fury, and his tiny flame of hope expanded, because if something had harmed the voices, then, surely, that was in his favor? He redoubled his efforts, converting what he still held of his mind into a fortress, all the while slowly becoming aware that his body was beginning to fail.

He was wounded, he realized. Drip by drip, second by second, his life flowed out of him, which, combined with the exertion spent on fighting the virus, began to sap his last reserves. He would die here, he thought, the images swirling in his head, except now they were of his childhood: of racing brooms down the Manor's stately gardens; of playing with Pansy and Blaise; of going to Hogwarts, being shadowed by Crabbe and Goyle, both dim but loyal; and then fighting with Potter, calling Granger names, scoffing at Weasley's second-hand robes…

His past flowed before him like a river, and he took some comfort in the fact that his last action would be a giant fuck you to Voldemort. If he died, wouldn't the curse go with him? If that was his fate…well, he wouldn't argue too much. Only one thing pained him – Hermione. What would happen to her?

Outside – he considered anything beyond his current realm of perception the _outside_ – Hermione and Dolohov's battle had come to abrupt end. He strained his hearing, trying to catch a tidbit, any kind of information (all the while keeping the voices out), and then realized that Hermione had lost. His brave, beautiful girl had fallen.

Draco bellowed soundlessly, cursing his impotent state and battering the walls of his prison with the desperation of a dying man. _Please,_ he begged whatever deity or god would listen, _please let me help her. Please!_

But no higher power responded; no light descended from the heavens above. Instead, helpless, he was forced to listen to Dolohov's putrid ramblings...something about a muggle store and stacks of canned peaches and a mission the Dark Lord had given him and a…

A cellar?

It took him a moment to fit the pieces together, and then a cold fury swept through his mind. Antonin Dolohov was the beast that had hurt Hermione - the one who had stolen her innocence and caused her endless sleepless nights! Draco hated him at that moment, despised the man more than anything in the world, and his rage gave him the strength to push against the voices, reconquering lost territory. The burden was monumental; he was akin to Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and it _still_ wasn't enough, as the two opposing forces ground to a standstill…

"You," he heard Hermione's tormented whisper. "It was you."

It was the sound of her voice, its listless cadence that brought in one more memory of the night she had shared her woes, and he had comforted her, breathing a single promise in her ear.

It was that memory which broke the gridlock, enabling him to charge at the voices with titanic force, and Voldemort's magic flinched, actually flinched, and then fled, running to cower and hide, to wait out this calamity, for surely no mortal could keep up such pressure!

Draco felt a rushing through his veins; his limbs tingled and his head hurt and there were so many of these tiny feelings, but it didn't matter, because he had regained control over his own body, and, no matter how frail or wounded or feeble it was, he could use it to help Hermione! He opened his mouth, took a fraction of an inhale, and–

Draco Malfoy, surrounded by shards of glass and blood, opened his eyes. He did so silently, the weakness in his body precluding from any additional movement. A dull throb beat near his temple, and a crust had formed around his eyes, as if he'd been asleep for a long time. "We had our fun," he heard from the side, where, at the edge of his peripheral vision, loomed a monster. It sported a hide of chequered pinks and blacks, a patchwork which reminded the Slytherin of a poorly cooked steak. Hermione lay just below. Draco couldn't see her, but her litany of broken sobs reached his ears, tearing his heart asunder. There was so much pain there: pain and anguish, sadness and despair, impotent fury and gut-wrenching hopelessness. His lioness had given up. The battle was over, the victor her foe. Now, only the inevitable final act remained, and then the curtain would fall and the drama would end.

"I promised I'd gut you, didn't I?" Dolohov's cruel words were like the twist of a knife as he took a perverse pleasure in his victim's whimpers.

Neither of the combatants was aware of Draco's conscious state - a pitiful edge, but one he'd use nonetheless. His old promise, ushered in by the memory of holding a ruined girl within his arms, sang in his ears. He had cradled her, like a child, and wiped away her tears and then made that one foolish promise on the floor of their Parisian hotel room, right before they had left for St. Petersburg.

" _I'll help you,_ " he had told her solemnly. " _I'll get him for you...even if it's the last thing I do."_

Now, the unknown, silver-masked entity from Hermione's nightmares had finally taken on a physical shell, and it was mind-numbingly close. Dolohov, leaning over the battered woman with a knife in his hands, was a mere foot away. Draco mustered all of his remaining strength, and felt his hands move an inch, just an inch, but his scrabbling fingers latched onto something long, jagged and sharp.

He didn't know it, but it was a piece of glass from the fallen chandelier that had wounded him.

His vision was growing dim again, and he felt the voices ascend in a triumphant crescendo, reaching for him, longing to drag him back into that murky oblivion. He fought them off.

"Goodbye, mudblood," Dolohov sneered.

It took everything Draco had. All of his conviction, his strength, his love for Hermione and his aching need to avenge her – everything. He put it all in that final movement, and his arm rocketed through the air, imbedding the shard of glass deep into Dolohov's neck.

He heard a gasp and a gurgle. Dolohov's knife fell, his hands diving up in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood. It looked like a waterfall, Draco thought hazily. A beautiful waterfall of red.

Dolohov fell, but Draco didn't care. Hermione's face, like the sun after a mighty storm, rose to take up the entirety of his vision, and he almost cried at how beaten it was. "Draco," she whispered. Her breaths were laborious, heavy. Each one seemed to cause her great pain.

She was a frightening sight, too: hair tangled into knots; face plastered with swelling bruises, blood and sweat. Despite it all, her eyes shone with an unyielding love.

"I...I did it," he managed to croak. "I got him for you. Just like I promised."

"You did." She was crying and smiling at the same time. "You did. You got him, Draco. Just like you promised. And it'll all be alright now. We'll be okay. We've had a spot of rotten luck, haven't we? But it'll all get better now, I swear. Even...look, over there, through the windows, you see? It's getting lighter; the sun's about to rise. The night's over; the day's come. We don't have to fight anymore...Draco?" Her voice rose, notes begging and shrill. "Draco! No… no, wait, please. Draco, don't go. Stay. Stay! Draco! _DRACO!"_

But the blond couldn't hear her anymore. The voices had returned, eclipsing her strangled pleas, and he didn't have the strength to fight them anymore. They tore him down into the leaden abyss, and he sunk like a rock, quickly passing the point of no return, watching the light of the world grow dim until, with a blink, it was gone.

Draco took one last breath – a shuddering gasp that charged his waning senses with that familiarly tender fragrance of asters and foxberry – and then he took no more.


	42. Fire and Ice

**Two chapters today, because you guys are just so awesome!**

* * *

Hermione stared, seeing his glassless eyes and the limp hand that had fallen, outstretched, as if he was still attempting to reach her. He looked so pale – a phantom of his prior self.

"No," she whispered hoarsely, refusing to accept the obvious. Her wand was a few steps away; grunting with pain, she crawled over to take it into her left hand.

" _Episkey,"_ she tried.

Nothing.

" _EPISKEY! EPISKEY! EPISK_ –"

A bout of coughing broke off her attempts to heal him. She felt a wetness gather on her lips; when she wiped them, her trembling fingers came away red with blood. Disgusted, the tossed her wand away; with her magic spent, it was as useful as a knut.

...And he still wasn't moving.

She fell over him, bracing herself with her knees and using her good hand to push down on his chest as she counted out loud: "One, two, three..." Her makeshift CPR was frantic, weak, awkwardly positioned and probably pointless, but she binned that thought and continued, leaning down to desperately force her breath into his lungs.

How long could a human brain survive without oxygen, anyway – a minute? Two? Five?

"One, two, three, one, two, three..."

She tried to hold onto, lose herself in that rhythm, searching for meaning in meaningless numbers, but soon the pain in her side became unbearable, and she collapsed on top of him, the impact almost causing her to lose consciousness. For a moment, she lay there, observing the darkness recede from her vision as the last vestiges of hope drained from her soul, leaving behind a desolate wasteland.

"Please," she begged, cupping the weeping wound on his temple, "please don't leave me."

He didn't answer; only Dolohov, somewhere to her right, gurgled faintly. It wasn't fair, she thought, cursing the universe for its cruel, uncaring nature. How could a monster like Dolohov still cling to life, while Draco, her Draco was…

She couldn't finish that thought. Her eyes prickled, but no tears came; she had cried them all out. Empty. She was empty, useless, alone. She'd never hear his voice again, grow exasperated at his banter, spend the night in his arms.

Hermione didn't move, but simply watched in a kind of detachment as the first rays of morning light swept up over the horizon. She couldn't find any joy in their beauty; to her, the world had transformed into a kaleidoscope of blurry grays and blacks. They weren't even distinct in any particular way; in fact, it was more the absence of color that she perceived. A bleak realm, an endless nothing that went on forever and ever and...

Lost in her despair, Hermione didn't notice it, at first: that faint burning which originated in the palm of her left hand. It was but a spark, but it grew quickly, flaring beneath her skin till she could deny it no more. She felt its heat permeate her body, a destructive, hungry power that flared as it settled near her heart, pulsing to its beat as if it were a drum on the field of battle.

 _Thump-thump._

 _Thump-thump._

 _Thump._

She glanced up, confused, and then her eyes widened as she picked up a trace of sulfur in the air – an element that had no reason to be here – and heard the assertive _clip-clop_ of hooves hitting wood.

"Shhh…" She felt someone's fingers trace through her hair, carefully untangling some of the knots. "Come, darling, don't despair. There are still many notes to play in your melody. Just remember…"

"Remember…" A second voice, as frigid as an angry November blizzard, echoed through the room, weaving a tapestry of frost on the high windows. "Fire and ice…"

 _Fire and ice._

Hermione gasped.

She saw it now, that memory of a woman, no, not a woman, but a creature of hell, a demon, striding towards her on cloven hooves, pressing something into the palm of her hand along with lulling words that soothed her into a dream she thought she'd lost.

" _A gift,"_ the Fae Queen had called this mysterious object, " _from a lesser being. It's rare they give one freely to your kind."_

" _I can't see or touch it."_

" _The time is not yet right…"_

Hermione's heart beat wildly, hope blooming in her chest. The Queen had told her that fire was only fit for destruction, but ice…

Another memory came, of a vast land of white, ice and snow stretching in every direction, where an inhuman presence spoke words she had failed to comprehend at the time.

" _But the cold...the cold preserves. It can keep someone who is on the very brink of death alive, for a time, at least. Fire and ice, child. There is a balance there."_

The fire inside her body was flaring, and the Queen's gift, cold and stark – the one she had received in that empty land, responded. Hermione could feel the two foreign magics – powers that were not meant to be wielded by man – bristling at one another, like a pair of wolves baring their fangs, ready to lunge and battle for dominance.

" _Putting opposites together often yields a volatile reaction. But, in rare cases, they can combine, and the resulting spell is magnitudes stronger. Fire and ice, child,"_ the queen's voice sang in her mind. " _Fire to burn, ice to preserve, and blood to catalyze. Put them together, complete the pattern, and they may return that which you think is already gone."_

Fire...to burn the infection.

Ice...to halt the march of death, keep Draco in the realm of the living.

And blood...she needed blood…

No textbook held the instructions for what she needed to accomplish, no written tome or scroll could guide her. This went beyond regurgitating bare facts in class; Hermione needed to corral both alien magics, shepherd them into Draco's body and make them fight for her cause.

And so Hermione closed her eyes, leaned down, and kissed Draco's pale lips.

She did so without any doubt or hesitation; at that moment, a distinct clarity possessed her mind, bringing a certainty that _this_ is what she should do. She pressed her lips against his, feeling the fire and ice orbit within her, and willed them, with every fiber of her being, to go to Draco, to heal him, and keep her love safe.

The magics heard…and answered her plea. They felt the strength of her need; through her, they tasted the blood on her lips, mixing freely with his, and they roared, melding together to form something that had no name, but was potent and grand and vast! The fire and ice became one and rose in a torrent of power, passing through her chest and lips and into the Slytherin's still body.

Hermione's hair frizzed from the excess magic, and she kept up the kiss, even though the sensation was raw agony. It was not meant for humans, this magic, but she held on, gathering fortitude in the simple fact of Draco's presence and in the desperate hope that he would survive.

She'd do anything for him. Anything at all.

She had little control over this operation; she was just a vessel and, second by second, she felt herself emptying as more and more of the magic flooded into Draco, filling him to the brim, making his hair shine in the morning light, his lips tremble and then – she felt it and her heart went crazy – they moved! His lips moved, and a strangled gasp came from his throat, and Hermione wanted to cry, but couldn't; there was no more strength, no power, and all she felt was the pain from her wounds.

She let go of his lips and rested her head on his chest, feeling it shift up and down, and then she closed her eyes, letting the hungry void take her far away.

Outside, at that moment, the sun breached the horizon and sparkled, bathing the world in golden light.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Silence…and then, the sound of voices:

" _Over here, we've found them! Where's the medical team?!"_

" _Oh, Hermione…"_

" _Out of the way, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley!"_

" _Gods, Harry, look at her! If her friend hadn't found us with that potion..."_

" _Move, move! What do we have?"_

" _The boy: heavy blood loss, but otherwise fine, surprisingly so; seems to be in a magically induced stasis. The girl...Three broken ribs, one's punctured the lung, snapped wrist, numerous bruises and abrasions, lesions on her right upper shoulder, a completely drained magical core_ – _that'll take months, maybe years to recover…"_

" _But she'll be fine, yeah? Oh, thank Merlin. Ron, I can't...I need to sit down…"_

" _There's one more thing…"_

" _What? What is it? Tell us!"_

A pause.

"... _She's pregnant."_

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

She woke to the muted hiss of hospital machines. Her eyes inched open, slowly, allowing the light to filter in through her eyelashes before snapping them open and soaking in her surroundings, watching Harry jump to her bedside.

"Hermione," he said softly.

"Where–where am…" she croaked out, and he raised a hand to hush her.

"St. Mungo's," he explained. "Anastasia flew in from Russia with the potion her babushka brewed. We found you draped over Malfoy, almost dead, but the staff here says you'll be fine."

"Dolohov?"

"Surprisingly, alive, although I'm not sure _how._ We have him sedated and in–"

He paused when she grasped his arm. "Harry, we can't..." she rasped, fear speaking through her words, "Voldemort's virus...no one can know...if that sort of magic becomes available…"

"Shockingly, Ron and I managed to figure that out," came Harry's dry reply. "So, for the time being, we're the only ones in direct contact with him."

Hermione breathed in deep, closing her eyes as she pondered his words.

"Hermione–" Harry began, but she cut him off.

"Give him to me."

"What?"

Hermione paused, moistening her lips, and then said: "Dolohov needs to disappear. Give him to me."

"Hermione, I'm not sure–"

"Harry." It was the way she said it: open, with a depth of emotion that he had never seen. There was a simmering fury in her tone, an aching need for vengeance. Unwillingly, the raven-haired wizard took a step back, blinking as he tried to reconcile his memory of Hermione-the-girl with the bitter and angry woman lying in the bed before him. Who was she? When had she changed so?

"Please."

Harry looked away. Hermione watched him, silently. His posture was rigid, face hard. He was blaming himself for another victim of the war.

He really shouldn't, she thought. But, if making him feel guilty would get her what she wanted…

"You could have died there, you know," he finally said in a hoarse whisper. "It's a miracle we were able to find you in time… the medics said another hour, and you'd have been…" He broke off, quickly wiping his eyes. "I can't lose you, Hermione. Promise me I won't lose you."

She reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze. "You have my word, Harry. I'll be by your side – always."

He exhaled, and quickly leaned down to press his lips to her forehead. "Alright, then. He's yours. Ron and I–we'll take care of it, when you're ready. I imagine I won't see him after that?"

"No, Harry," she promised. "You won't. I…" Hermione stumbled, lost for words. "There's something else I need to know. How–how is–" She couldn't get herself to finish the question. Some answers are just too terrifying.

"Ah." Harry understood her instantly. "That git. Thought you'd want to know about him, considering how you two have managed to become so close." Hermione blushed crimson, averting her eyes when Harry pierced her with his emerald stare. "Well, he's quite alright, actually, apart from his, well, _gittiness,_ but I don't think there's a cure for that. Quite the surprise you brought us."

"I...I wanted to tell you, about him and me, but I was…I mean…"

"Hermione," he stopped her. "You should never be afraid to tell me anything. Ever. Agreed?"

She shook her head gratefully and smiled.

"Agreed."

"Well, I want to be angry with you for thinking you couldn't trust me with that information, but then what kind of friend would I be? Besides, I now know something you don't, and, believe me, you're in for one hell of a surprise. So, here's what I'm gonna do: I'm gonna go tell Ron that you've woken, so that he can come visit you while I babysit Dolohov, but, before that...there's someone here who wants to see you. This certain... _git_ , for lack of a better word _,_ has been driving Ron and me up the wall, but I think you'd want a few words with him, am I right? Hmm...thought so. He's been sleeping here, you know, in the hospital, waiting for you. Well, I'll let him in now."

Hermione clutched her chest, unable to respond through the sudden tightness in her throat. Her vision shimmered, and she thought she saw Harry walk out, heard him say a few words, and then...

He walked in, his blond hair in a disarray and bags under his eyes, but she didn't care. To her, he was the happiest sight in the world, and she extended her hands, watching him run up until his face was only inches away, and something wet was on her cheeks, but it didn't matter, because it was proof that he was alive and her soul soared higher than the heavens above.

She knew then that she was at the beginning of something wonderful. Something that would last her entire life.

And so it did.

* * *

 **Welp. That is that. Just the epilogue remains.**


	43. Only A Matter Of Time

In the Ministry's archives, the official file on Dolohov would forever read: "ESCAPED FROM CUSTODY – CURRENT LOCATION UNKNOWN." From time to time young Aurors, eager to prove themselves, would open the file and try their luck. They'd hunt for new leads, recreate the Death Eater's last known moments, question old witnesses. Inevitably, they'd give up and return the documents to gather dust until another hopeful – months or maybe years later – retrieved them off the shelves.

When Harry Potter, then Head Auror, would ask his subordinates how their initiative went, they'd color slightly and glance away, blissfully unaware that it was the Head Auror himself who had aided in Dolohov's escape. They had no idea. Who would imagine that the savior of the wizarding world had broken official Ministry protocol and extricated a murderous dark wizard all as a favor to his friend?

Preposterous, and yet such was the truth. Of course, even Harry didn't know what happened to Antonin after he'd dropped him off, bound and gagged, at the coordinates Hermione provided.

Only two people did. But they never shared.

...They never shared about that tiny, dark room in the bowels of Malfoy Manor. It was cold inside, dark, damp; there were no windows and the door was reinforced. Scores of charms protected it; to the random passerby it looked like just another stretch of wall. Sometimes, when her old wounds began to gnaw, and she couldn't sleep, Hermione would enter that room. Draco never followed her in. He would sit near the door, reading a newspaper instead, an unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth. He would wait, diligently, turning the pages until his girlfriend – and then wife – would exit. He'd look at her silently, picking out the specs of blood on her knuckles and the lingering hum of malicious spells that crackled about her wand. He would never question her, never ask. Instead, he'd just offer a hand, which she'd gratefully take. Then, they would ascend back to the floors of the living, and for a few weeks all would be well.

Until the next sleepless night. Then it would all repeat: the itch, the room, and the blood.

But no one ever knew. It was their secret and theirs alone.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Vela Malfoy was born in late August at the Dolohov estate in the Urals. Hermione's labor, aided by the ancient babushka, went smoothly, after which their verbal contract became sealed. The babushka had been ambiguous during her demands in exchange for making the blood potion; nevertheless, Hermione had agreed to the deal. Only the details needed to be hammered out, and the two witches settled on having Hermione's daughter spend one month out of every year at the Dolohov's, learning the ways of the Yaga. She would do so till she came of age.

It worked out well: Hermione and Draco timed Vela's secondary "education" with their own vacations, and spent the time together, traveling the mountains in Anastasia's company.

And the years flew by…

Hermione returned to the Ministry. With her name and the Malfoy gold, she became a force to be reckoned with, although Harry came to suspect that a more sinister factor was in play. Hermione's rise was just too meteoric. All of her opponents came to switch their positions and willingly align themselves to the witch. Sometimes, Hermione would visit a village and have its population converted to her agenda in a matter of weeks. Old purebloods suddenly touted the muggleborn banner. Some held out, of course – a few lone voices, which were either discredited or were found having committed suicide. Harry investigated some of the deaths – and found them above board. No signs of foul play could be detected by the Auror Department. It was just so convenient how these deaths worked in the Malfoys' favor. At one point, Harry even wanted to contact Dr. Frackenburer for an independent analysis on the victims, but found that St. Mungo's leading neuromagic specialist had been offered a lucrative contract elsewhere and could not be located.

Harry looked around at the world Hermione was building – more equal, tolerant, and kind – and decided not to pursue the matter. Freedom always requires sacrifice.

Draco once again frequented societal events. Always by Hermione's side, he played a pivotal role in bridging the divide between the old families and the newcomers to the magical world. His relationships with Hermione's friends were a bit more tumultuous, but, over time, he could be seen having an amiable conversation with Harry, and then Ron. They played pickup Quidditch on the weekends, while the children enviously watched from below. To the Slytherin's immense dissatisfaction, Vela and young James Potter became very close friends, which garnered a number of cheeky comments from the other adults.

Draco responded by swearing that his daughter would enter the dating pool only by her mid-30's.

When Vela turned six, Hermione and Draco had a second child – Scorpius. Three years later, Hermione became Minister.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Time went by.

In the middle of a meeting with a French delegation, Hermione's finger, absently tapping at a piece of parchment, froze. The speeches had been boring, causing her mind to wander down passageways she rarely ventured. One of them was the idea of _the room,_ and Hermione realized that its interior hadn't intruded into her thoughts for over half a year. Her war wounds had quietly disappeared, and only thin scars remained. The compulsion to descend into the damp darkness had withered away. She didn't need it anymore.

She cut the meeting short and Flooed home.

Draco and the kids were delighted.

The family spent the rest of the day outside, picnicking on the shores of an azure-blue mountain lake. Linny had packed a picnic basket, and while the children splashed in the water, Hermione fed her husband sun-kissed strawberries under a vast and lofty sky. The juice from the little fruits ended up covering his lips and later hers.

The children were properly disgusted.

When evening came, they packed up, bidding farewell to their picturesque surroundings, and returned home. The Manor, remodeled and airy, eagerly greeted its family.

That night, after the kids were put to bed and a quietness descended around, Hermione drew Draco close, kissing him with reckless abandon. His lips still held the lingering tang of strawberry, and she tasted it till the first rays of dawn broke through the clouds on the horizon, coloring them into peach, magenta and rose.

The pair was sweaty with content exhaustion, and before she fell asleep Hermione leaned in close and whispered something into her husband's ear.

"You're sure?" he asked.

"More than anything in the world."

Draco waited till her breathing became steady and slow. Then he took his wand and descended to the lower levels. By the time Hermione rose, the little room, that dark blemish deep in the Manor's foundation was empty and locked. It wouldn't be discovered for many years, when Vela's grandchildren stumbled upon the entrance and decided it was a disused cellar.

In a way, they were right.

And as for the rest of our heroes? Draco and Hermione, Harry and Ron? They all lived fruitful lives, but even the best ones must come to an end.

Harry was the first to pass into that distant land of beyond. There were two funerals for him: one, a public event; the other, a small, private ceremony. Hermione, standing next to Ginny and Ron, cried. Harry had seemed immortal; a monument that could withstand anything, even time. His hair had still held its color and his eyes were a vivid green – just as they had been so many years ago, when she'd burst into his compartment on the train, inquiring about another boy's missing frog.

But Harry was gone, and nothing could change that.

Ten years later, Hermione came to wake with a strange feeling, like she was being carried far away. There were voices and smiles all around and over there, right there...were her parents. She almost broke down – she hadn't seen them since seventeen. Hermione, wiping tears from eyes, hugged them both tight.

"Hi, mom," she said, crying. "Hi, dad. I've missed you so much."

"Hi, sweetheart. Don't cry. We've been with you all this time. We're so proud, Hermione. So proud…"

...When Draco returned to check on Hermione, who'd left their great-grandchildren's birthday party to lie down for a bit, he found her still. Not a single breath escaped the lips he loved so much. He carefully kneeled down next to her, gently running his fingers through her soft hair, and just stayed there for some time, recalling all the years and good memories they'd shared together. He was thankful for that, and yet it hurt so much inside. After that, it was easy for his tether to the world to grow thin. His death came shortly, just a week later. When he started to feel it happening, all he experienced was joy. He was returning to Hermione's side, after all. They'd be together now, always.

Ron died at St. Mungo's surrounded by his family. He was the last of the Golden Trio to pass, and, lying on his deathbed, his eyes stared into the past. They didn't see his children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews or dozens of other kin. Instead, he found himself reliving days when three children had snuck past a three-headed dog and brewed potions in a girl's lavatory. He remembered lazy evenings by the lake and trips to Hogsmeade; watching Hermione dazzle everyone at the Yule Ball and cheering for Harry on his third task, only to be horrified by the appalling and unforeseen revelation at its conclusion; journeying in a tent and fighting battles no one ever should.

It'd been so long since he'd seen Harry, Hermione or even her blond git of a husband.

Still, he'd shake his hand.

It was only a matter of time.

Only a...matter of...

A chorus of greetings suddenly rose up nearby – voices he hadn't heard in years. Ron looked around and smiled happily.

All his friends were here. He was with them once more.

 _The End._

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 **It's tough to articulate some of the feelings I have after finishing this story. Suffice to say that I'm happy.**

 **A huge thank you to Frogster, who joined me halfway and has been an invaluable source of help. Her keen eye spotted many typos. She's currently writing a marriage law fic called 'Let It Be Me' and I urge everyone to give it a read.**

 **Also, a mountain of gratitude to all reviewers. I started this fic for myself, because I had an idea I wanted to express and also because I wanted to practice writing, but I quickly discovered that even a single sentence or two in response to a chapter can mean so much. So, thank you. I hope you enjoyed the tale.**

 **And, hey, you see any more of my stories - give 'em a try, wont ya?**

 **Till next time,**

 **kirsant**


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